When we came from our home at Clazomenae to Athens, we met Adeimantus and Glaucon in the market-place. Adeimantus took me by the hand and said, “Welcome, Cephalus if there is anything we can do for you here, let us know.”“Why,” said I, “that is just why I am here, to ask a favour of you.”“Tell us,” said he, “what it is.” And I said, “What was your half-brother's name? I don't remember. He was only a boy when I came here from Clazomenae before and that is now a long time ago. His father's name, I believe, was Pyrilampes.”“Yes,” said he.“And what is his own name?”“Antiphon. Why do you ask?”“These gentlemen,” I said, “are fellow-citizens of mine, who are very fond of philosophy. They have heard that this Antiphon had a good deal to do with a friend of Zeno's named Pythodorus, that Pythodorus often repeated to him the conversation which Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides once had together, and that he remembers it.”“That is true,” said he.“Well,” I said, “we should like to hear it.”“There is no difficulty about that,” said he “for when he was a youth he studied it with great care though now he devotes most of his time to horses, like his grandfather Antiphon. If that is what you want, let us go to him. He has just gone home from here, and he lives close by in Melite.” Thereupon we started, and we found Antiphon at home, giving a smith an order to make a bridle. When he had got rid of the smith and his brother told him what we were there for, he remembered me from my former visit and greeted me cordially, and when we asked him to repeat the conversation, he was at first unwilling—for he said it was a good deal of trouble—but afterwards he did so. Antiphon, then, said that Pythodorus told him that Zeno and Parmenides once came to the Great Panathenaea; that Parmenides was already quite elderly, about sixty-five years old, very white-haired, and of handsome and noble countenance; Zeno was at that time about forty years of age; he was tall and good-looking, and there was a story that Parmenides had been in love with him. He said that they lodged with Pythodorus outside of the wall, in Cerameicus, and that Socrates and many others with him went there because they wanted to hear Zeno's writings, which had been brought to Athens for the first time by them. Socrates was then very young. So Zeno himself read aloud to them, and Parmenides was not in the house. Pythodorus said the reading of the treatises was nearly finished when he came in himself with Parmenides and Aristoteles (the one who was afterwards one of the thirty), so they heard only a little that remained of the written works. He himself, however, had heard Zeno read them before.Socrates listened to the end, and then asked that the first thesis of the first treatise be read again. When this had been done, he said: “Zeno, what do you mean by this? That if existences are many, they must be both like and unlike, which is impossible; for the unlike cannot be like, nor the like unlike? Is not that your meaning?”“Yes,” said Zeno.“Then if it is impossible for the unlike to be like and the like unlike, it is impossible for existences to be many; for if they were to be many, they would experience the impossible. Is that the purpose of your treatises, to maintain against all arguments that existences are not many? And you think each of your treatises is a proof of this very thing, and therefore you believe that the proofs you offer that existences are not many are as many as the treatises you have written? Is that your meaning, or have I misunderstood?”“No,” said Zeno, “you have grasped perfectly the general intent of the work.”“I see, Parmenides,” said Socrates, “that Zeno here wishes to be very close to you not only in his friendship, but also in his writing. For he has written much the same thing as you, but by reversing the process he tries to cheat us into the belief that he is saying something new. For you, in your poems, say that the all is one, and you furnish proofs of this in fine and excellent fashion; and he, on the other hand, says it is not many, and he also furnishes very numerous and weighty proofs. That one of you says it is one, and the other that it is not many, and that each of you expresses himself so that although you say much the same you seem not to have said the same things at all, appears to the rest of us a feat of expression quite beyond our power.”“Yes, Socrates,” said Zeno, “but you have not perceived all aspects of the truth about my writings. You follow the arguments with a scent as keen as a Laconian hound's, but you do not observe that my treatise is not by any means so pretentious that it could have been written with the intention you ascribe to it, of disguising itself as a great performance in the eyes of men. What you mentioned is a mere accident, but in truth these writings are meant to support the argument of Parmenides against those who attempt to jeer at him and assert that if the all is one many absurd results follow which contradict his theory. Now this treatise opposes the advocates of the many and gives them back their ridicule with interest, for its purpose is to show that their hypothesis that existences are many, if properly followed up, leads to still more absurd results than the hypothesis that they are one. It was in such a spirit of controversy that I wrote it when I was young, and when it was written some one stole it, so that I could not even consider whether it should be published or not. So, Socrates, you are not aware of this and you think that the cause of its composition was not the controversial spirit of a young man, but the ambition of an old one. In other respects, as I said, you guessed its meaning pretty well.”“I see,” said Socrates, “and I accept your explanation. But tell me, do you not believe there is an idea of likeness in the abstract, and another idea of unlikeness, the opposite of the first, and that you and I and all things which we call many partake of these two? And that those which partake of likeness become like, and those which partake of unlikeness become unlike, and those which partake of both become both like and unlike, all in the manner and degree of their participation? And even if all things partake of both opposites, and are enabled by their participation to be both like and unlike themselves, what is there wonderful about that? For if anyone showed that the absolute like becomes unlike, or the unlike like, that would, in my opinion, be a wonder; but if he shows that things which partake of both become both like and unlike, that seems to me, Zeno, not at all strange, not even if he shows that all things are one by participation in unity and that the same are also many by participation in multitude; but if he shows that absolute unity is also many and the absolute many again are one, then I shall be amazed. The same applies to all other things. If he shows that the kinds and ideas in and by themselves possess these opposite qualities, it is marvellous but if he shows that I am both one and many, what marvel is there in that? He will say, when he wishes to show that I am many, that there are my right parts and my left parts, my front parts and my back parts, likewise upper and lower, all different; for I do, I suppose, partake of multitude; and when he wishes to show that I am one, he will say that we here are seven persons, of whom I am one, a man, partaking also of unity and so he shows that both assertions are true. If anyone then undertakes to show that the same things are both many and one—I mean such things as stones, sticks, and the like—we shall say that he shows that they are many and one, but not that the one is many or the many one; he says nothing wonderful, but only what we should all accept. If, however, as I was saying just now, he first distinguishes the abstract ideas, such as likeness and unlikeness, multitude and unity, rest and motion, and the like, and then shows that they can be mingled and separated, I should,” said he, “be filled with amazement, Zeno. Now I think this has been very manfully discussed by you; but I should, as I say, be more amazed if anyone could show in the abstract ideas, which are intellectual conceptions, this same multifarious and perplexing entanglement which you described in visible objects.”Pythodorus said that he thought at every word, while Socrates was saying this, Parmenides and Zeno would be angry, but they paid close attention to him and frequently looked at each other and smiled, as if in admiration of Socrates, and when he stopped speaking Parmenides expressed their approval. “Socrates,” he said, “what an admirable talent for argument you have! Tell me, did you invent this distinction yourself, which separates abstract ideas from the things which partake of them? And do you think there is such a thing as abstract likeness apart from the likeness which we possess, and abstract one and many, and the other abstractions of which you heard Zeno speaking just now?”“Yes, I do,” said Socrates.“And also,” said Parmenides, “abstract ideas of the just, the beautiful, the good, and all such conceptions?”“Yes,” he replied. “And is there an abstract idea of man, apart from us and all others such as we are, or of fire or water?”“I have often,” he replied, “been very much troubled, Parmenides, to decide whether there are ideas of such things, or not.”“And are you undecided about certain other things, which you might think rather ridiculous, such as hair, mud, dirt, or anything else particularly vile and worthless? Would you say that there is an idea of each of these distinct and different from the things with which we have to do, or not?”“By no means,” said Socrates. “No, I think these things are such as they appear to us, and it would be quite absurd to believe that there is an idea of them; and yet I am sometimes disturbed by the thought that perhaps what is true of one thing is true of all. Then when I have taken up this position, I run away for fear of falling into some abyss of nonsense and perishing; so when I come to those things which we were just saying do have ideas, I stay and busy myself with them.” “Yes, for you are still young,” said Parmenides, “and philosophy has not yet taken hold upon you, Socrates, as I think it will later. Then you will not despise them; but now you still consider people's opinions, on account of your youth. Well, tell me do you think that, as you say, there are ideas, and that these other things which partake of them are named from them, as, for instance, those that partake of likeness become like, those that partake of greatness great, those that partake of beauty and justice just and beautiful?”“Certainly,” said Socrates.“Well then, does each participant object partake of the whole idea, or of a part of it? Or could there be some other third kind of participation?”“How could there be?” said he.“Do you think the whole idea, being one, is in each of the many participants, or what?”“Yes, for what prevents it from being in them, Parmenides?” said Socrates. “Then while it is one and the same, the whole of it would be in many separate individuals at once, and thus it would itself be separate from itself.”“No,” he replied, “for it might be like day, which is one and the same, is in many places at once, and yet is not separated from itself; so each idea, though one and the same, might be in all its participants at once.”“That,” said he, “is very neat, Socrates you make one to be in many places at once, just as if you should spread a sail over many persons and then should say it was one and all of it was over many. Is not that about what you mean?”“Perhaps it is,” said Socrates.“Would the whole sail be over each person, or a particular part over each?”“A part over each.”“Then,” said he, “the ideas themselves, Socrates, are divisible into parts, and the objects which partake of them would partake of a part, and in each of them there would be not the whole, but only a part of each idea.”“So it appears.”“Are you, then, Socrates, willing to assert that the one idea is really divided and will still be one?”“By no means,” he replied.“No,” said Parmenides, “for if you divide absolute greatness, and each of the many great things is great by a part of greatness smaller than absolute greatness, is not that unreasonable?”“Certainly,” he said.“Or again, will anything by taking away a particular small part of equality possess something by means of which, when it is less than absolute equality, its possessor will be equal to anything else?”“That is impossible.”“Or let one of us have a part of the small; the small will be greater than this, since this is a part of it, and therefore the absolute small will be greater; but that to which the part of the small is added will be smaller, not greater, than before.”“That,” said he, “is impossible.”“How, then, Socrates, will other things partake of those ideas of yours, if they cannot partake of them either as parts or as wholes?”“By Zeus,” he replied, “I think that is a very hard question to determine.”“Well, what do you think of this?”“Of what?” “I fancy your reason for believing that each idea is one is something like this; when there is a number of things which seem to you to be great, you may think, as you look at them all, that there is one and the same idea in them, and hence you think the great is one.”“That is true,” he said.“But if with your mind's eye you regard the absolute great and these many great things in the same way, will not another great appear beyond, by which all these must appear to be great?”“So it seems.”“That is, another idea of greatness will appear, in addition to absolute greatness and the objects which partake of it; and another again in addition to these, by reason of which they are all great; and each of your ideas will no longer be one, but their number will be infinite.”“But, Parmenides,” said Socrates, “each of these ideas may be only a thought, which can exist only in our minds then each might be one, without being exposed to the consequences you have just mentioned.”“But,” he said, “is each thought one, but a thought of nothing?”“That is impossible,” he replied.“But of something?”“Yes.” “Of something that is, or that is not?”“Of something that is.”“A thought of some single element which that thought thinks of as appertaining to all and as being one idea?”“Yes.”“Then will not this single element, which is thought of as one and as always the same in all, be an idea?”“That, again, seems inevitable.”“Well then,” said Parmenides, “does not the necessity which compels you to say that all other things partake of ideas, oblige you also to believe either that everything is made of thoughts, and all things think, or that, being thoughts, they are without thought?”“That is quite unreasonable, too,” he said, “but Parmenides, I think the most likely view is, that these ideas exist in nature as patterns, and the other things resemble them and are imitations of them; their participation in ideas is assimilation to them, that and nothing else.”“Then if anything,” he said, “resembles the idea, can that idea avoid being like the thing which resembles it, in so far as the thing has been made to resemble it; or is there any possibility that the like be unlike its like?”“No, there is none.”“And must not necessarily the like partake of the same idea as its like?”“It must.”“That by participation in which like things are made like, will be the absolute idea, will it not?”“Certainly.”“Then it is impossible that anything be like the idea, or the idea like anything; for if they are alike, some further idea, in addition to the first, will always appear, and if that is like anything, still another, and a new idea will always be arising, if the idea is like that which partakes of it.”“Very true.”“Then it is not by likeness that other things partake of ideas we must seek some other method of participation.”“So it seems.”“Do you see, then, Socrates, how great the difficulty is, if we maintain that ideas are separate, independent entities?”“Yes, certainly.”“You may be sure,” he said, “that you do not yet, if I may say so, grasp the greatness of the difficulty involved in your assumption that each idea is one and is something distinct from concrete things.”“How is that?” said he.“There are many reasons,” he said, “but the greatest is this; if anyone should say that the ideas cannot even be known if they are such as we say they must be, no one could prove to him that he was wrong, unless he who argued that they could be known were a man of wide education and ability and were willing to follow the proof through many long and elaborate details; he who maintains that they cannot be known would be unconvinced.”“Why is that, Parmenides?” said Socrates.“Because, Socrates, I think that you or anyone else who claims that there is an absolute idea of each thing would agree in the first place that none of them exists in us.”“No, for if it did, it would no longer be absolute,” said Socrates.“You are right,” he said. “Then those absolute ideas which are relative to one another have their own nature in relation to themselves, and not in relation to the likenesses, or whatever we choose to call them, which are amongst us, and from which we receive certain names as we participate in them. And these concrete things, which have the same names with the ideas, are likewise relative only to themselves, not to the ideas, and, belong to themselves, not to the like-named ideas.”“What do you mean?” said Socrates.“For instance,” said Parmenides, “if one of us is master or slave of anyone, he is not the slave of master in the abstract, nor is the master the master of slave in the abstract; each is a man and is master or slave of a man but mastership in the abstract is mastership of slavery in the abstract, and likewise slavery in the abstract is slavery to mastership in the abstract, but our slaves and masters are not relative to them, nor they to us; they, as I say, belong to themselves and are relative to themselves and likewise our slaves and masters are relative to themselves. You understand what I mean, do you not?”“Certainly,” said Socrates, “I understand.”“Then knowledge also, if abstract or absolute, would be knowledge of abstract or absolute truth?”“Certainly.”“And likewise each kind of absolute knowledge would be knowledge of each kind of absolute being, would it not?”“Yes.”“And would not the knowledge that exists among us be the knowledge of the truth that exists among us, and each kind of our knowledge be the knowledge of each kind of truth that exists among us?”“Yes, that is inevitable.”“But the ideas themselves, as you, agree, we have not, neither can they be among us.”“No, they cannot.”“And the various classes of ideas are known by the absolute idea of knowledge?”“Yes.”“Which we do not possess.”“No, we do not.”“Then none of the ideas is known by us, since we do not partake of absolute knowledge.”“Apparently not.”“Then the absolute good and the beautiful and all which we conceive to be absolute ideas are unknown to us.”“I am afraid they are.”“Now we come to a still more fearful consequence.”“What is it?”“You would say, no doubt, that if there is an absolute kind of knowledge, it is far more accurate than our knowledge, and the same of beauty and all the rest?”“Yes.”“And if anything partakes of absolute knowledge, you would say that there is no one more likely than God to possess this most accurate knowledge?”“Of course.” “Then will it be possible for God to know human things, if he has absolute knowledge?”“Why not?”“Because,” said Parmenides, “we have agreed that those ideas are not relative to our world, nor our world to them, but each only to themselves.”“Yes, we have agreed to that.”“Then if this most perfect mastership and this most accurate knowledge are with God, his mastership can never rule us, nor his knowledge know us or anything of our world; we do not rule the gods with our authority, nor do we know anything of the divine with our knowledge, and by the same reasoning, they likewise, being gods, are not our masters and have no knowledge of human affairs.”“But surely this,” said he, “is a most amazing argument, if it makes us deprive God of knowledge.”“And yet, Socrates,” said Parmenides, “these difficulties and many more besides are inseparable from the ideas, if these ideas of things exist and we declare that each of them is an absolute idea. Therefore he who hears such assertions is confused in his mind and argues that the ideas do not exist, and even if they do exist cannot by any possibility be known by man; and he thinks that what he says is reasonable, and, as I was saying just now, he is amazingly hard to convince. Only a man of very great natural gifts will be able to understand that everything has a class and absolute essence, and only a still more wonderful man can find out all these facts and teach anyone else to analyze them properly and understand them.”“I agree with you, Parmenides,” said Socrates, “for what you say is very much to my mind.”“But on the other hand,” said Parmenides, “if anyone, with his mind fixed on all these objections and others like them, denies the existence of ideas of things, and does not assume an idea under which each individual thing is classed, he will be quite at a loss, since he denies that the idea of each thing is always the same, and in this way he will utterly destroy the power of carrying on discussion. You seem to have been well aware of this.”“Quite true,” he said.“Then what will become of philosophy? To what can you turn, if these things are unknown?”“I do not see at all, at least not at present.”“No, Socrates,” he said, “for you try too soon, before you are properly trained, to define the beautiful, the just, the good, and all the other ideas. You see I noticed it when I heard you talking yesterday with Aristoteles here. Your impulse towards dialectic is noble and divine, you may be assured of that; but exercise and train yourself while you are still young in an art which seems to be useless and is called by most people mere loquacity; otherwise the truth will escape you.”“What, then, Parmenides,” he said, “is the method of training?”“That which you heard Zeno practising,” said he. “However, even when you were speaking to him I was pleased with you, because you would not discuss the doubtful question in terms of visible objects or in relation to them, but only with reference to what we conceive most entirely by the intellect and may call ideas.”“Yes,” he said, “that is because I think that in that way it is quite easy to show that things experience likeness or unlikeness or anything else.”“Quite right,” said he, “but if you wish to get better training, you must do something more than that; you must consider not only what happens if a particular hypothesis is true, but also what happens if it is not true.”“What do you mean?” he said.“Take, for instance,” he replied, “that hypothesis of Zeno's if the many exist, you should inquire what will happen to the many themselves in relation to themselves and to the one, and to the one in relation to itself and to the many, and also what will happen to the one and the many in relation to themselves and to each other, if the many do not exist. And likewise if you suppose the existence or non-existence of likeness, what will happen to the things supposed and to other things in relation to themselves and to each other under each of the two hypotheses. The same applies to unlikeness and to motion and rest, creation and destruction, and even to being and not being. In brief, whatever the subject of your hypothesis, if you suppose that it is or is not, or that it experiences any other affection, you must consider what happens to it and to any other particular things you may choose, and to a greater number and to all in the same way; and you must consider other things in relation to themselves and to anything else you may choose in any instance, whether you suppose that the subject of your hypothesis exists or does not exist, if you are to train yourself completely to see the truth perfectly.”“Parmenides,” he said, “it is a stupendous amount of study which you propose, and I do not understand very well. Why do you not yourself frame an hypothesis and discuss it, to make me understand better?” “That is a great task, Socrates,” he said, “to impose upon a man of my age.”“But you, Zeno,” said Socrates, “why do not you do it for us?”Pythodorus said that Zeno answered with a smile: “Let us ask it of Parmenides himself, Socrates; for there is a great deal in what he says, and perhaps you do not see how heavy a task you are imposing upon him. If there were more of us, it would not be fair to ask it of him; for it is not suitable for him to speak on such subjects before many, especially at his age; for the many do not know that except by this devious passage through all things the mind cannot attain to the truth. So I, Parmenides, join Socrates in his request, that I myself may hear the method, which I have not heard for a long time.”Antiphon said that Pythodorus told him that when Zeno said this he himself and Antisthenes and the rest begged Parmenides to show his meaning by an example and not to refuse. And Parmenides said: “I must perforce do as you ask. And yet I feel very much like the horse in the poem of IbycusIbycus fragm. Bergk.—an old race-horse who was entered for a chariot race and was trembling with fear of what was before him, because he knew it by experience. Ibycus says he is compelled to fall in love against his will in his old age, and compares himself to the horse. So I am filled with terror when I remember through what a fearful ocean of words I must swim, old man that I am. However, I will do it, for I must be obliging, especially since we are, as Zeno says, alone. Well, how shall we begin? What shall be our first hypothesis? Or, since you are determined that I must engage in a laborious pastime, shall I begin with myself, taking my own hypothesis and discussing the consequences of the supposition that the one exists or that it does not exist?”“By all means,” said Zeno.“Who then,” said he, “to answer my questions? Shall we say the youngest? He would be least likely to be over-curious and most likely to say what he thinks and moreover his replies would give me a chance to rest.” “I am ready, Parmenides, to do that,” said Aristoteles, “for I am the youngest, so you mean me. Ask your questions and I will answer.”“Well then,” said he, “if the one exists, the one cannot be many, can it?” “No, of course not.” “Then there can be no parts of it, nor can it be a whole.” “How is that?” “The part surely is part of a whole.” “Yes.” “And what is the whole? Is not a whole that of which no part is wanting?” “Certainly.” “Then in both cases the one would consist of parts, being a whole and having parts.” “Inevitably.” “Then in both cases the one would be many, not one.” “True.” “Yet it must be not many, but one.” “Yes.” “Then the one, if it is to be one, will not be a whole and will not have parts.” “No.”“And if it has no parts, it can have no beginning, or middle, or end, for those would be parts of it?” “Quite right.” “Beginning and end are, however, the limits of everything.” “Of course.” “Then the one, if it has neither beginning nor end, is unlimited.” “Yes, it is unlimited.” “And it is without form, for it partakes neither of the round nor of the straight.” “How so?” “The round, of course, is that of which the extremes are everywhere equally distant from the center.” “Yes.” “And the straight, again, is that of which the middle is in the nearest line between the two extremes.” “It is.” “Then the one would have parts and would be many, whether it partook of straight or of round form.” “Certainly.” “Then it is neither straight nor round, since it has no parts.” “Right.”“Moreover, being of such a nature, it cannot be anywhere, for it could not be either in anything else or in itself.” “How is that?” “If it were in something else, it would be encircled by that in which it would be and would be touched in many places by many parts of it; but that which is one and without parts and does not partake of the circular nature cannot be touched by a circle in many places.” “No, it cannot.” “But, furthermore, being in itself it would also be surrounding with itself naught other than itself, if it were in itself; for nothing can be in anything which does not surround it.” “No, it cannot.” “Then that which surrounds would be other than that which is surrounded; for a whole cannot be both active and passive in the same action; and thus one would be no longer one, but two.” “True.” “Then the one is not anywhere, neither in itself nor in something else.” “No, it is not.”“This being the case, see whether it can be either at rest or in motion.” “Why not?” “Because if in motion it would be either moving in place or changing; for those are the only kinds of motion.” “Yes.” “But the one, if changing to something other than itself, cannot any longer be one.” “It cannot.” “Then it is not in motion by the method of change.” “Apparently not.” “But by moving in place?” “Perhaps.” “But if the one moved in place, it would either revolve in the same spot or pass from one place to another.” “Yes, it must do so.” “And that which revolves must rest upon a center and have other parts which turn about the center; but what possible way is there for that which has no center and no parts to revolve upon a center?” “There is none.” “But does it change its place by coming into one place at one time and another at another, and move in that way?” “Yes, if it moves at all.” “Did we not find that it could not be in anything?” “Yes.” “And is it not still more impossible for it to come into anything?” “I do not understand why.” “If anything comes into anything, it must be not yet in it, while it is still coming in, nor still entirely outside of it, if it is already coming in, must it not?” “It must.” “Now if anything goes through this process, it can be only that which has parts; for a part of it could be already in the other, and the rest outside; but that which has no parts cannot by any possibility be entirely neither inside nor outside of anything at the same time.” “True.” “But is it not still more impossible for that which has no parts and is not a whole to come into anything, since it comes in neither in parts nor as a whole?” “Clearly.” “Then it does not change its place by going anywhere or into anything, nor does it revolve in a circle, nor change.” “Apparently not.” “Then the one is without any kind of motion.” “It is motionless.” “Furthermore, we say that it cannot be in anything.” “We do.” “Then it is never in the same.” “Why is that?” “Because it would then be in that with which the same is identical.” “Certainly.” “But we saw that it cannot be either in itself or in anything else.” “No, it cannot.” “Then the one is never in the same.” “Apparently not.” “But that which is never in the same is neither motionless nor at rest.” “No, it cannot be so.” “The one, then, it appears, is neither in motion nor at rest.” “No, apparently not.”“Neither, surely, can it be the same with another or with itself; nor again other than itself or another.” “Why not?” “If it were other than itself, it would be other than one and would not be one.” “True.” “And, surely, if it were the same with another, it would be that other, and would not be itself; therefore in this case also it would not be that which it is, namely one, but other than one.” “Quite so.” “Then it will not be the same as another, nor other than itself.” “No.” “But it will not be other than another, so long as it is one. For one cannot be other than anything; only other, and nothing else, can be other than another.” “Right.” “Then it will not be other by reason of being one, will it?” “Certainly not.” “And if not for this reason, not by reason of itself; and if not by reason of itself, not itself; but since itself is not other at all, it will not be other than anything.” “Right.” “And yet one will not be the same with itself.” “Why not?” “The nature of one is surely not the same as that of the same.” “Why?” “Because when a thing becomes the same as anything, it does not thereby become one.” “But why not?” “That which becomes the same as many, becomes necessarily many, not one.” “True.” “But if the one and the same were identical, whenever anything became the same it would always become one, and when it became one, the same.” “Certainly.” “Then if the one is the same with itself, it will not be one with itself; and thus, being one, it will not be one; this, however, is impossible; it is therefore impossible for one to be either the other of other or the same with itself.” “Impossible.” “Thus the one cannot be either other or the same to itself or another.” “No, it cannot.” “And again it will not be like or unlike anything, either itself or another.” “Why not?” “Because the like is that which is affected in the same way.” “Yes.” “But we saw that the same was of a nature distinct from that of the one.” “Yes, so we did.” “But if the one were affected in any way apart from being one, it would be so affected as to be more than one, and that is impossible.” “Yes.” “Then the one cannot possibly be affected in the same way as another or as itself.” “Evidently not.” “Then it cannot be like another or itself.” “No, so it appears.” “Nor can the one be so affected as to be other; for in that case it would be so affected as to be more than one.” “Yes, it would be more.” “But that which is affected in a way other than itself or other, would be unlike itself or other, if that which is affected in the same way is like.” “Right.” “But the one, as it appears, being never affected in a way other than itself or other, is never unlike either itself or other.” “Evidently not.” “Then the one will be neither like nor unlike either other or itself.” “So it seems.”“Since, then, it is of such a nature, it can be neither equal nor unequal to itself or other.” “Why not?” “If it is equal, it is of the same measures as that to which it is equal.” “Yes.” “And if it is greater or less than things with which it is commensurate, it will have more measures than the things which are less and less measures than the things which are greater.” “Yes.” “And in the case of things with which it is not commensurate, it will have smaller measures than some and greater measures than others.” “Of course.” “Is it not impossible for that which does not participate in sameness to have either the same measures or anything else the same?” “Impossible.” “Then not having the same measures, it cannot be equal either to itself or to anything else.” “No, apparently not.” “But whether it have more measures or less, it will have as many parts as measures and thus one will be no longer one, but will be as many as are its measures.” “Right.” “But if it were of one measure, it would be equal to the measure; but we have seen that it cannot be equal to anything.” “Yes, so we have.” “Then it will partake neither of one measure, nor of many, nor of few; nor will it partake at all of the same, nor will it ever, apparently, be equal to itself or to anything else; nor will it be greater or less than itself or another.” “Perfectly true.” “Well, does anyone believe that the one can be older or younger or of the same age?” “Why not?” “Because if it has the same age as itself or as anything else, it will partake of equality and likeness of time, and we said the one had no part in likeness or equality.” “Yes, we said that.” “And we said also that it does not partake of unlikeness or inequality.” “Certainly.” “How, then, being of such a nature, can it be either younger or older or of the same age as anything?” “In no way.” “Then the one cannot be younger or older or of the same age as anything.” “No, evidently not.” “And can the one exist in time at all, if it is of such a nature? Must it not, if it exists in time, always be growing older than itself?” “It must.” “And the older is always older than something younger?” “Certainly.” “Then that which grows older than itself grows at the same time younger than itself, if it is to have something than which it grows older.” “What do you mean?” “This is what I mean: A thing which is different from another does not have to become different from that which is already different, but it must be different from that which is already different, it must have become different from that which has become so, it will have to be different from that which will be so, but from that which is becoming different it cannot have become, nor can it be going to be, nor can it already be different: it must become different, and that is all.” “There is no denying that.” “But surely the notion 'older' is a difference with respect to the younger and to nothing else.” “Yes, so it is.” “But that which is becoming older than itself must at the same time be becoming younger than itself.” “So it appears.” “But surely it cannot become either for a longer or for a shorter time than itself; it must become and be and be about to be for an equal time with itself.” “That also is inevitable.” “Apparently, then, it is inevitable that everything which exists in time and partakes of time is of the same age as itself and is also at the same time becoming older and younger than itself.” “I see no escape from that.” “But the one had nothing to do with such affections.” “No, it had not.” “It has nothing to do with time, and does not exist in time.” “No, that is the result of the argument.”“Well, and do not the words 'was,' 'has become,' and 'was becoming' appear to denote participation in past time?” “Certainly.” “And 'will be,' 'will become,' and 'will be made to become,' in future time?” “Yes.” “And 'is' and 'is becoming' in the present?” “Certainly.” “Then if the one has no participation in time whatsoever, it neither has become nor became nor was in the past, it has neither become nor is it becoming nor is it in the present, and it will neither become nor be made to become nor will it be in the future.” “Very true.” “Can it then partake of being in any other way than in the past, present, or future?” “It cannot.” “Then the one has no share in being at all.” “Apparently not.” “Then the one is not at all.” ” Evidently not.” ” Then it has no being even so as to be one, for if it were one, it would be and would partake of being; but apparently one neither is nor is one, if this argument is to be trusted.” “That seems to be true.” “But can that which does not exist have anything pertaining or belonging to it?” “Of course not.” “Then the one has no name, nor is there any description or knowledge or perception or opinion of it.” “Evidently not.” “And it is neither named nor described nor thought of nor known, nor does any existing thing perceive it.” “Apparently not.” “Is it possible that all this is true about the one ?” “I do not think so.”“Shall we then return to our hypothesis and see if a review of our argument discloses any new point of view?” “By all means.” “We say, then, that if the one exists, we must come to an agreement about the consequences, whatever they may be, do we not?” “Yes.” “Now consider the first point. If one is, can it be and not partake of being?” “No, it cannot.” “Then the being of one will exist, but will not be identical with one; for if it were identical with one, it would not be the being of one, nor would one partake of it, but the statement that one is would be equivalent to the statement that one is one but our hypothesis is not if one is one, what will follow, but if one is. Do you agree?” “Certainly.” “In the belief that one and being differ in meaning?” “Most assuredly.” “Then if we say concisely 'one is,' it is equivalent to saying that one partakes of being?” “Certainly.” “Let us again say what will follow if one is and consider whether this hypothesis must not necessarily show that one is of such a nature as to have parts.” “How does that come about ?” “In this way: If being is predicated of the one which exists and unity is predicated of being which is one, and being and the one are not the same, but belong to the existent one of our hypothesis, must not the existent one be a whole of which the one and being are parts?” “Inevitably.” “And shall we call each of these parts merely a part, or must it, in so far as it is a part, be called a part of the whole?” “A part of the whole.” “Whatever one, then, exists is a whole and has a part.” “Certainly.” “Well then, can either of these two parts of existent one—unity and being—abandon the other? Can unity cease to be a part of being or being to be a part of unity?” “No.” “And again each of the parts possesses unity and being, and the smallest of parts is composed of these two parts, and thus by the same argument any part whatsoever has always these two parts; for always unity has being and being has unity; and, therefore, since it is always becoming two, it can never be one.” “Certainly.” “Then it results that the existent one would be infinite in number?” “Apparently.”“Let us make another fresh start.” “In what direction?” “We say that the one partakes of being, because it is?” “Yes.” “And for that reason the one, because it is, was found to be many.” “Yes.” “Well then, will the one, which we say partakes of being, if we form a mental conception of it alone by itself, without that of which we say it partakes, be found to be only one, or many?” “One, I should say.” “Just let us see; must not the being of one be one thing and one itself another, if the one is not being, but, considered as one, partakes of being?” “Yes, that must be so.” “Then if being is one thing and one is another, one is not other than being because it is one, nor is being other than one because it is being, but they differ from each other by virtue of being other and different.” “Certainly.” “Therefore the other is neither the same as one nor as being.” “Certainly not.” “Well, then, if we make a selection among them, whether we select being and the other, or being and one, or one and the other, in each instance we select two things which may properly be called both?” “What do you mean?” “I will explain. We can speak of being?” “Yes.” “And we can also speak of one?” “Yes, that too.” “Then have we not spoken of each of them?” “Yes.” “And when I speak of being and one, do I not speak of both?” “Certainly.” “And also when I speak of being and other, or other and one, in every case I speak of each pair as both?” “Yes.” “If things are correctly called both, can they be both without being two?” “They cannot.” “And if things are two, must not each of them be one?” “Certainly.” “Then since the units of these pairs are together two, each must be individually one.” “That is clear.” “But if each of them is one, by the addition of any sort of one to any pair whatsoever the total becomes three?” “Yes.” “And three is an odd number, and two is even?” “Of course.” “Well, when there are two units, must there not also be twice, and when there are three, thrice, that is, if two is twice one and three is thrice one?” “There must.” “But if there are two and twice, must there not also be twice two? And again, if there are three and thrice, must there not be thrice three?” “Of course.” “Well then, if there are three and twice and two and thrice, must there not also be twice three and thrice two?” “Inevitably.” “Then there would be even times even, odd times odd, odd times even, and even times odd.” “Yes.” “Then if that is true, do you believe any number is left out, which does not necessarily exist?” “By no means.” “Then if one exists, number must also exist.” “It must.” “But if number exists, there must be many, indeed an infinite multitude, of existences; or is not number infinite in multitude and participant of existence?” “Certainly it is.” “Then if all number partakes of existence, every part of number will partake of it?” “Yes.” “Existence, then, is distributed over all things, which are many, and is not wanting in any existing thing from the greatest to the smallest? Indeed, is it not absurd even to ask that question? For how can existence be wanting in any existing thing?” “It cannot by any means.” “Then it is split up into the smallest and greatest and all kinds of existences nothing else is so much divided, and in short the parts of existence are infinite.” “That is true.” “Its parts are the most numerous of all.” “Yes, they are the most numerous.” “Well, is there any one of them which is a part of existence, but is no part?” “How could that be?” “But if there is, it must, I imagine, so long as it is, be some one thing; it cannot be nothing.” “That is inevitable.” “Then unity is an attribute of every part of existence and is not wanting to a smaller or larger or any other part.” “True.” “Can the one be in many places at once and still be a whole? Consider that question.” “I am considering and I see that it is impossible.” “Then it is divided into parts, if it is not a whole; for it cannot be attached to all the parts of existence at once unless it is divided.” “I agree.” “And that which is divided into parts must certainly be as numerous as its parts.” “It must.” “Then what we said just now—that existence was divided into the greatest number of parts—was not true for it is not divided, you see, into any more parts than one, but, as it seems, into the same number as one for existence is not wanting to the one, nor the one to existence, but being two they are equal throughout.” “That is perfectly clear.” “The one, then, split up by existence, is many and infinite in number.” “Clearly.” “Then not only the existent one is many, but the absolute one divided by existence, must be many.” “Certainly.”“And because the parts are parts of a whole, the one would be limited by the whole; or are not the parts included by the whole?” “They must be so.” “But surely that which includes is a limit.” “Of course.” “Then the existent one is, apparently, both one and many, a whole and parts, limited and of infinite number.” “So it appears.” “Then if limited it has also extremes ?” “Certainly.” “Yes, and if it is a whole, will it not have a beginning, a middle, and an end? Or can there be any whole without these three? And if any one of these is wanting, will it still be a whole?” “It will not.” “Then the one, it appears, will have a beginning, a middle, and an end.” “It will.” “But surely the middle is equally distant from the extremes for otherwise it would not be a middle.” “No.” “And the one, apparently, being of such a nature, will partake of some shape, whether straight or round or a mixture of the two.” “Yes, it will.”“This being the case, will not the one be in itself and in other?” “How is that?” “Each of the parts doubtless is in the whole and none is outside of the whole.” “True.” “And all the parts are included in the whole ?” “Yes.” “And surely the one is all its parts, neither more nor less than all.” “Certainly.” “But the whole is the one, is it not?” “Of course.” “Then if all the parts are in the whole and all the parts are the one and the one is also the whole, and all the parts are included in the whole, the one will be included in the one, and thus the one will be in itself.” “Evidently.” “But the whole is not in the parts, neither in all of them nor in any. For if it is in all, it must be in one, for if it were wanting in any one it could no longer be in all; for if this one is one of all, and the whole is not in this one, how can it still be in all?” “It cannot in any way.” “Nor can it be in some of the parts; for if the whole were in some parts, the greater would be in the less, which is impossible.” “Yes, it is impossible.” “But not being in one or several or all of the parts, it must be in something else or cease to be anywhere at all?” “It must.” “And if it were nowhere, it would be nothing, but being a whole, since it is not in itself, it must be in something else, must it not?” “Certainly.” “Then the one, inasmuch as it is a whole, is in other and inasmuch as it is all its parts, it is in itself; and thus one must be both in itself and in other.” “It must.” “This being its nature, must not the one be both in motion and at rest?” “How is that?” “It is at rest, no doubt, if it is in itself; for being in one, and not passing out from this, it is in the same, namely in itself.” “It is.” “But that which is always in the same, must always be at rest.” “Certainly.” “Well, then, must not, on the contrary, that which is always in other be never in the same, and being never in the same be not at rest, and being not at rest be in motion?” “True.” “Then the one, being always in itself and in other, must always be in motion and at rest.” “That is clear.”“And again, it must be the same with itself and other than itself, and likewise the same with all other things and other than they, if what we have said is true.” “How is that?” “Everything stands to everything in one of the following relations: it is either the same or other; or if neither the same or other, its relation is that of a part to a whole or of a whole to a part.” “Obviously.” “Now is the one a part of itself?” “By no means.” “Then it cannot, by being a part in relation to itself, be a whole in relation to itself, as a part of itself.” “No, that is impossible.” “Nor can it be other than itself.” “Certainly not.” “Then if it is neither other nor a part nor a whole in relation to itself, must it not therefore be the same with itself?” “It must.” “Well, must not that which is in another place than itself—the self being in the same place with itself—be other than itself, if it is to be in another place?” “I think so.” “Now we saw that this was the case with one, for it was in itself and in other at the same time.” “Yes, we saw that it was so.” “Then by this reasoning the one appears to be other than itself.” “So it appears.” “Well then, if a thing is other than something, will it not be other than that which is other than it?” “Certainly.” “Are not all things which are not one, other than one, and the one other than the not one?” “Of course.” “Then the one would be other than the others.” “Yes, it is other.” “Consider; are not the absolute same and the absolute other opposites of one another?” “Of course.” “Then will the same ever be in the other, or the other in the same?” “No.” “Then if the other can never be in the same, there is no existing thing in which the other is during any time; for if it were in anything during any time whatsoever, the other would be in the same, would it not?” “Yes, it would.” “But since the other is never in the same, it can never be in any existing thing.” “True.” “Then the other cannot be either in the not one or in the one.” “No, it cannot.” “Then not by reason of the other will the one be other than the not one or the not one other than the one.” “No.” “And surely they cannot by reason of themselves be other than one another, if they do not partake of the other.” “Of course not.” “But if they are not other than one another either by reason of themselves or by reason of the other, will it not be quite impossible for them to be other than one another at all?” “Quite impossible.” “But neither can the not one partake of the one; for in that case they would not be not one, but would be one.” “True.” “Nor can the not one be a number; for in that case, too, since they would possess number, they would not be not one at all.” “No, they would not.” “Well, then, are the not one parts of the one?” “Or would the not one in that case also partake of the one?” “Yes, they would partake of it.” “If, then, in every way the one is one and the not one are not one, the one cannot be a part of the not one, nor a whole of which the not one are parts, nor are the not one parts of the one, nor a whole of which the one is a part.” “No.” “But we said that things which are neither parts nor wholes of one another, nor other than one another, are the same as one another.” “Yes, we did.” “Shall we say, then, that since the relations of the one and the not one are such as we have described, the two are the same as one another?” “Yes, let us say that.” “The one, then, is, it appears, other than all other things and than itself, and is also the same as other things and as itself.” “That appears to be the result of our argument.”“Is it, then, also like and unlike itself and others?” “Perhaps.” “At any rate, since it was found to be other than others, the others must also be other than it.” “Of course.” “Then it is other than the others just as the others are other than it, neither more nor less?” “Certainly.” “And if neither more nor less, then in like degree?” “Yes.” “In so far as it is so affected as to be other than the others and the others are affected in the same way in relation to the one, to that degree the one will be affected in the same way as the others and the others in the same way as the one.” “What do you mean?” “I will explain. You give a particular name to a thing?” “Yes.” “Well, you can utter the same name once or more than once?” “Yes.” “And do you name that to which the name belongs when you utter it once, but not when you utter it many times? Or must you always mean the same thing when you utter the same name, whether once or repeatedly?” “The same thing, of course.” “The word other is the name of something, is it not?” “Certainly.” “Then when you utter it, whether once or many times, you apply it to nothing else, and you name nothing else, than that of which it is the name.” “Assuredly.” “Now when we say that the others are other than the one, and the one is other than the others, though we use the word other twice, we do not for all that apply it to anything else, but we always apply it to that nature of which it is the name.” “Certainly.” “In so far as the one is other than the others and the others are other than the one, the one and the others are not in different states, but in the same state; but whatever is in the same state is like, is it not?” “Yes.” “Then in so far as the one is in the state of being other than the others, just so far everything is like all other things; for everything is other than all other things.” “So it appears.” “But the like is opposed to the unlike.” “Yes.” “And the other to the same.” “That is also true.” “But this, too, was shown, that the one is the same as the others.” “Yes, it was.” “And being the same as the others is the opposite of being other than the others.” “Certainly.” “In so far as it was other it was shown to be like.” “Yes.” “Then in so far as it is the same it will be unlike, since it has a quality which is the opposite of the quality which makes it like, for the other made it like.” “Yes.” “Then the same will make it unlike; otherwise the same will not be the opposite of the other.” “So it appears.” “Then the one will be both like and unlike the others, like in so far as it is other, unlike in so far as it is the same.” “Yes, that sort of conclusion seems to be tenable.” “But there is another besides.” “What is it?” “In so far as it is in the same state, the one is not in another state, and not being in another state it is not unlike, and not being unlike it is like but in so far as it is in another state, it is of another sort, and being of another sort it is unlike.” “True.” “Then the one, because it is the same as the others and because it is other than the others, for both these reasons or for either of them would be both like and unlike the others.” “Certainly.” “And likewise, since it has been shown to be other than itself and the same as itself, the one will for both these reasons or for either of them be both like and unlike itself.” “That is inevitable.” “Now, then, consider the question whether the one touches or does not touch itself and other things.” “I am considering.” “The one was shown, I think, to be in the whole of itself.” “Right.” “And the one is also in other things?” “Yes.” “Then by reason of being in the others it would touch them, and by reason of being in itself it would be prevented from touching the others, but would touch itself, since it is in itself.” “That is clear.” “Thus the one would touch itself and the other things.” “It would.” “But how about this? Must not everything which is to touch anything be next to that which it is to touch, and occupy that position which, being next to that of the other, touches it?” “It must.” “Then the one, if it is to touch itself, must lie next to itself and occupy the position next to that in which it is.” “Yes, it must.” “The one, then, might do this if it were two, and might be in two places at once; but so long as it is one, it will not?” “No, it will not.” “The one can no more touch itself than it can be two.” “No.” “Nor, again, will it touch the others.” “Why not?” “Because, as we agreed, that which is to touch anything must be outside of that which it is to touch, and next it, and there must be no third between them.” “True.” “Then there must be two, at least, if there is to be contact.” “There must.” “And if to the two a third be added in immediate succession, there will be three terms and two contacts.” “Yes.” “And thus whenever one is added, one contact also is added, and the number of contacts is always one less than the number of terms; for every succeeding number of terms exceeds the number of all the contacts just as much as the first two terms exceeded the number of their contacts. For after the first every additional term adds one to the number of contacts.” “Right.” “Then whatever the number of terms, the contacts are always one less.” “True.” “But if only one exists, and not two, there can be no contact.” “Of course not.” “We affirm that those things which are other than one are not one and do not partake of oneness, since they are other.” “They do not.” “Then there is no number in others, if one is not in them.” “Of course not.” “Then the others are neither one nor two, nor have they the name of any other number.” “No.” “The one is, then, only one, and there can be no two.” “That is clear.” “There is no contact if there are no two terms.” “No, there is none.” “Then the one does not touch the others, nor the others the one, since there is no contact.” “No, certainly not.” “Thus on all these grounds the one touches and does not touch itself and the others.” “So it appears.”“And is the one both equal and unequal to itself and the others?” “How is that?” “If the one were greater or less than the others, or, again, the others greater or less than the one, is it not true that the one, considered merely as one, and the others, considered merely as others, would be neither greater nor less than one another, so far as their own natures are concerned; but if in addition to their own natures, they both possessed equality, they would be equal to one another or if the others possessed greatness and the one smallness, or vice versa, that class to which greatness was added would be greater, and that to which smallness was added would be smaller?” “Certainly.” “These two ideas, greatness and smallness, exist, do they not?” “For if they did not exist, they could not be opposites of one another and could not come into being in things.” “That is obvious.” “Then if smallness comes into being in the one, it would be either in a part or in the whole of it.” “Necessarily.” “What if it be in the whole of one?” “Will it not either be on an equality with the one, extending throughout the whole of it, or else contain it?” “Clearly.” “And if smallness be on an equality with the one, will it not be equal to the one, and if it contain the one, greater than the one?” “Of course.” “But can smallness be equal to anything or greater than anything, performing the functions of greatness or equality and not its own functions?” “No, it cannot.” “Then smallness cannot exist in the whole of the one, but, if at all, only in a part of it.” “Yes.” “And neither can it exist in a whole part, for then it will behave just as it did in relation to the whole; it will be equal to or greater than the part in which it happens to exist.” “Inevitably.” “Then smallness will never exist in anything, either in a part or in a whole, nor will anything be small except absolute smallness.” “So it appears.” “Nor will greatness exist in the one. For in that case, something other than absolute greatness and differing from it, namely that in which greatness exists, would be greater, and that although there is no smallness in it, which greatness must exceed, if it be great. But this is impossible, since smallness exists nowhere.” “True.” “But absolute greatness is not greater than anything but absolute smallness, and absolute smallness is not smaller than anything but absolute greatness.” “No.” “Then other things are neither greater nor smaller than the one, if they have neither greatness nor smallness, nor have even these two the power of exceeding or being exceeded in relation to the one, but only in relation to each other, nor can the one be greater or less than these two or than other things, since it has neither greatness nor smallness.” “Evidently not.” “Then if the one is neither greater nor smaller than the others, it can neither exceed them nor be exceeded by them?” “Certainly not.” “Then that which neither exceeds nor is exceeded must be on an equality, and being on an equality, must be equal.” “Of course.” “And the one will be in the same relation to itself also; if it have in itself neither greatness nor smallness, it cannot be exceeded by itself or exceed itself; it would be on an equality with and equal to itself.” “Certainly.” “The one is, then, equal to itself and to the others.” “Evidently.” “But the one, being within itself, would also be contained by itself, and since it contains itself it would be greater than itself, and since it is contained by itself it would be less than itself; thus the one would be both greater and less than itself.” “Yes, it would.” “And is it true, moreover, that nothing can exist outside of the one and the others?” “Of course.” “But that which exists must always exist somewhere.” “Yes.” “And that which exists in anything will be smaller and will exist in the greater? One thing cannot exist in another in any other way, can it?” “No, it cannot.” “But since there is nothing else apart from the one and the others, and they must be in something, must they not be in one another, the others in the one and the one in the others, or else be nowhere at all?” “Clearly.” “And because the one is in the others, the others will be greater than the one, since they contain it, and the one less than the others, since it is contained; but because the others are in the one, the one will by the same reasoning be greater than the others, and the others less than the one.” “So it appears.” “Then the one is equal to and greater and less than itself and the others.” “Evidently.” “And if equal and greater and less, it will be of equal and more and less measures with itself and the others, and since of equal, more, and less measures, of equal, more, and less parts.” “Of course.” “And being of equal and more and less measures, it will be less and more in number than itself and the others and likewise equal in number to itself and the others.” “How is that?” “If it is greater than any things, it will be of more measures than they; and of as many parts as measures. Similarly if it is less or equal, the number of parts will be less or equal.” “True.” “Then one, being greater and less than itself and equal to itself, will be of more and less measures than itself and of equal measures with itself, and if of measures, of parts also?” “Of course.” “And being of equal parts with itself, it will also be equal in number to itself, and if of more parts, more in number, and if of less parts, less in number than itself.” “Clearly.” “And will not the one possess the same relation towards other things?” “Because it is shown to be greater than they, must it not also be more in number than they and because it is smaller, less in number? And because it is equal in size, must it not be also, equal in number to the others?” “Yes, it must.” “And so once more, as it appears, the one will be equal to, greater than, and less than itself and other things in number.” “Yes, it will.”“And does the one partake of time and if it partakes of time, is it and does it become younger and older than itself and other things, and neither younger nor older than itself and the others?” “What do you mean?” “If one is, it is thereby shown to be.” “Yes.” “But is 'to be' anything else than participation in existence together with present time, just as 'was' denotes participation in existence together with past time, and 'will be' similar participation together with future time?” “True.” “Then the one partakes of time if it partakes of being.” “Certainly.” “And the time in which it partakes is always moving forward?” “Yes.” “Then it is always growing older than itself, if it moves forward with the time.” “Certainly.” “Now, do we not remember that there is something becoming younger when the older becomes older than it?” “Yes, we do.” “Then the one, since it becomes older than itself, would become older than a self which becomes younger?” “There is no doubt of it.” “Thus the one becomes older and younger than itself.” “Yes.” “And it is older (is it not) when in becoming older it is in the present time, between the past and the future; for in going from the past to the future it cannot avoid the present.” “No, it cannot.” “Then is it not the case that it ceases to become older when it arrives at the present, and no longer becomes, but actually is older? For while it moves forward it can never be arrested by the present, since that which moves forward touches both the present and the future, letting the present go and seizing upon the future, proceeding or becoming between the two, the present and the future.” “True.” “But if everything that is becoming is unable to avoid and pass by the present, then when it reaches the present it always ceases to become and straightway is that which it happens to be becoming.” “Clearly.” “The one, then, when in becoming older it reaches the present, ceases to become and straightway is older.” “Certainly.” “It therefore is older than that than which it was becoming older; and it was becoming older than itself.” “Yes.” “And that which is older is older than that which is younger, is it not?” “It is.” “Then the one is younger than itself, when in becoming older it reaches the present.” “Undoubtedly.” “But the present is inseparable from the one throughout its whole existence; for it always is now whenever it is.” “Of course.” “Always, then, the one is and is becoming younger than itself.” “So it appears.” “And is it or does it become for a longer time than itself, or for an equal time?” “For an equal time.” “But that which is or becomes for an equal time is of the same age.” “Of course.” “But that which is of the same age is neither older nor younger.” “No.” “Then the one, since it is and becomes for an equal time with itself, neither is nor becomes older or younger than itself.” “I agree.” “Well, then, is it or does it become older or younger than other things?” “I cannot tell.” “But you can at any rate tell that the others, if they are others, not an other—plural, not singular—are more than one; for if they were an other, they would be one; but since they are others, they are more than one and have multitude.” “Yes, they have.” “And being a multitude, they would partake of a number greater than one.” “Of course.” “Well, which shall we say come and have come into being first, the greater or the smaller numbers?” “The smaller.” “Then the smallest comes into being first and that is the one, is it not?” “Yes.” “The one, therefore, has come into being first of all things that have number; but all others also have number, if they are others and not an other.” “They have.” “And since it came into being first, it came into being, I suppose, before the others, and the others later; but things which have come into being later are younger than that which came into being before them and thus the other things would be younger than the one, and the one older than the other things.” “Yes, they would.”“Here is another question: Can the one have come into being contrary to its own nature, or is that impossible?” “It is impossible.” “But surely the one was shown to have parts, a beginning, a middle, and an end.” “Yes.” “And the beginning of everything—of one and everything else alike—comes into being first, and after the beginning come all the other parts until the end arrives, do they not?” “Certainly.” “And we shall say also that all these others are parts of the whole and the one, and that it has become one and whole at the moment when the end arrives.” “Yes, we shall say that.” “The end, I imagine, comes into being last; and at that moment the one naturally comes into being; so that if the absolute one cannot come into being contrary to its own nature, since it has come into being simultaneously with the end, its nature must be such that it comes into being after all the others.” “That is clear.” “Then the one is younger than the others and the others are older than the one.” “I think that is clear, too.” “Well, must not a beginning or any other part whatsoever of one or of anything else whatsoever, if it be a part, not parts, be one, since it is a part?” “It must.” “Then the one would come into being simultaneously with the first part and with the second, and it is not wanting in any part which comes into being in addition to any part whatsoever which may precede it, until it reaches the end and becomes complete one; it will not be wanting in the middle, nor in the first, nor in the last, nor in any other part in the process of coming into being.” “True.” “Then one has the same age as all the others so that the absolute one, unless it is naturally contrary to nature, could not have come into being either before or after the others, but only simultaneously with them. And by this reasoning the one would be neither older nor younger than the others nor the others than the one, but of the same age; but by the previous reasoning the one would be both older and younger than the others, and likewise the others than the one.” “Certainly.” “In this state, then, it is and in this way it has come into being. But what about the one becoming older and younger than the others, and the others than the one, and becoming neither older nor younger? Is it the same with becoming as with being, or otherwise?” “I cannot say.” “But I can say as much as this, that even if one thing be older than another, it cannot become older by any greater difference in age than that which existed at first, nor if younger can it become younger by any greater difference; for the addition of equals to unequals, whether in time or anything else whatsoever, makes the difference always equal to that which existed at first.” “Yes, of course.” “Then that which exists can never become older or younger than that which exists, if the difference in age is always the same; but it is and has become older, and the other is and has become younger, but it does not become so.” “True.” “And the one, since it exists, never becomes either older or younger than the other things.” “No, it does not.” “But see whether they become older and younger in this way.” “In what way?” “Because the one was found to be older than the others, and the others than the one.” “What then?” “When the one is older than the others, it has come into being a longer time than the others.” “Yes.” “Then consider again. If we add an equal to a greater and to a less time, will the greater differ from the less by the same or by a smaller fraction?” “By a smaller fraction.” “Then the proportional difference in age which existed originally between the one and the others will not continue afterwards, but if an equal time be added to the one and the others, the difference in their ages will constantly diminish, will it not?” “Yes.” “And that which differs less in age from something than before becomes younger than before in relation to those things than which it formerly was older?” “Yes, it becomes younger.” “But if the one becomes younger, must not those other things in turn become older than formerly in relation to the one?” “Certainly.” “Then that which came into being later, becomes older in relation to the older, which came into being earlier; yet it never is older, but is always becoming older; for the latter always tends towards being younger, and the former towards being older. And conversely the older becomes in the same way younger than the younger. For as they are moving in opposite directions, they are becoming the opposites of one another, the younger older than the older, and the older younger than the younger; but they cannot finish the process of becoming; for if they finished the process of becoming, they would no longer be becoming, they would be. But as the case is, they become older and younger than one another—the one becomes younger than the others, because, as we saw, it is older and came into being earlier, and the others are becoming older than the one, because they came into being later. By the same reasoning the others stand in the same relation to the one, since they were seen to be older than the one and to have come into being earlier.” “Yes, that is clear.” “Then from the point of view that no one thing becomes older or younger than another, inasmuch as they always differ by an equal number, the one cannot become older or younger than the others, nor the others than the one; but in so far as that which comes into being earlier must always differ by a different proportional part from that which comes into being later, and vice versa—from this point of view the one and the others must necessarily become both older and younger than one another, must they not?” “Certainly.” “For all these reasons, then, the one both is and becomes both older and younger than both itself and the others, and neither is nor becomes either older or younger than either itself or the others.” “Perfectly true.” “But since the one partakes of time and can become older and younger, must it not also partake of the past, the future, and the present?” “It must.” “Then the one was and is and will be and was becoming and is becoming and will become.” “Certainly.” “And there would be and was and is and will be something which is in relation to it and belongs to it?” “Certainly.” “And there would be knowledge and opinion and perception of it; there must be, if we are now carrying on all this discussion about it.” “You are right.” “And it has a name and definition, is named and defined, and all the similar attributes which pertain to other things pertain also to the one.” “That is perfectly true.”“Let us discuss the matter once more and for the third time. If the one is such as we have described it, being both one and many and neither one nor many, and partakes of time, must it not, because one is, sometimes partake of being, and again because one is not, sometimes not partake of being?” “Yes, it must.” “And can one, when it partakes of being, not partake of it, or partake of it when it does not partake of it?” “No, it cannot.” “Then it partakes at one time and does not partake at another; for that is the only way in which it can partake and not partake of the same thing.” “True.” “And is there not also a time when it assumes being and when it gives it up? How can it sometimes have and sometimes not have the same thing, unless it receives it at some time and again loses it?” “There is no other way at all.” “But would you not say that receiving existence is generation or becoming?” “Yes.” “And losing existence is destruction?” “Certainly.” “The one, then, as it appears, since it receives and loses existence, is generated and destroyed.” “Inevitably.” “And being one and many and being generated and destroyed, when it becomes one its existence as many is destroyed, and when it becomes many its existence as one is destroyed, is it not?” “Certainly.” “And in becoming one and many, must it not be separated and combined?” “Inevitably.” “And when it becomes like and unlike, it must be assimilated and dissimilated?” “Yes.” “And when it becomes greater and smaller and equal, it must be increased and diminished and equalized?” “Yes.” “And when being in motion it comes to rest, and when being at rest it changes to motion, it must itself be in no time at all.” “How is that?” “It is impossible for it to be previously at rest and afterwards in motion, or previously in motion and afterwards at rest, without changing.” “Of course.” “And there is no time in which anything can be at once neither in motion nor at rest.” “No, there is none.” “And certainly it cannot change without changing.” “I should say not.” “Then when does it change? For it does not change when it is at rest or when it is in motion or when it is in time.” “No, it does not.” “Does this strange thing, then, exist, in which it would be at the moment when it changes?” “What sort of thing is that?” “The instant. For the instant seems to indicate a something from which there is a change in one direction or the other. For it does not change from rest while it is still at rest, nor from motion while it is still moving; but there is this strange instantaneous nature, something interposed between motion and rest, not existing in any time, and into this and out from this that which is in motion changes into rest and that which is at rest changes into motion.” “Yes, that must be so.” “Then the one, if it is at rest and in motion, must change in each direction; for that is the only way in which it can do both. But in changing, it changes instantaneously, and when it changes it can be in no time, and at that instant it will be neither in motion nor at rest.” “No.” “And will the case not be the same in relation to other changes?” “When it changes from being to destruction or from not being to becoming, does it not pass into an intermediate stage between certain forms of motion and rest, so that it neither is nor is not, neither comes into being nor is destroyed?” “Yes, so it appears.” “And on the same principle, when it passes from one to many or from many to one, it is neither one nor many, is neither in a process of separation nor in one of combination. And in passing from like to unlike or from unlike to like, it is neither like nor unlike, neither in a process of assimilation nor in one of dissimilation; and in passing from small to great and to equal and vice versa, it is neither small nor great nor equal, neither in a process of increase, nor of diminution, nor of equality.” “Apparently not.” “All this, then, would happen to the one, if the one exists.” “Yes, certainly.”“Must we not consider what is likely to happen to the other things, if the one exists?” “We must.” “Shall we tell, then, what must happen to the things other than one, if one exists?” “Let us do so.” “Well, since they are other than the one, the other things are not the one for if they were, they would not be other than the one.” “True.” “And yet surely the others are not altogether deprived of the one, but they partake of it in a certain way.” “In what way?” “Because the others are other than the one by reason of having parts; for if they had no parts, they would be altogether one.” “True.” “But parts, we affirm, belong to that which is a whole.” “Yes, we affirm that they do.” “But the whole must be one composed of many and of this the parts are parts. For each of the parts must be a part, not of many, but of a whole.” “How is that?” “If anything is a part of many, and is itself one of the many, it will be a part of itself, which is impossible, and of each one of the others, if it is a part of all. For if it is not a part of some particular one, it will be a part of the rest, with the exception of that one, and thus it will not be a part of each one, and not being a part of each one, it will not be a part of any one of the many. But that which belongs to none cannot belong, whether as a part or as anything else, to all those things to none of which it belongs.” “That is clear.” “Then the part is a part, not of the many nor of all, but of a single form and a single concept which we call a whole, a perfect unity created out of all this it is of which the part is a part.” “Certainly.” “If, then, the others have parts, they will partake of the whole and of the one.” “True.” “Then the things which are other than one must be a perfect whole which has parts.” “Yes, they must.” “And the same reasoning applies to each part for the part must partake of the one. For if each of the parts is a part, the word 'each' implies that it is one, separated from the rest, and existing by itself; otherwise it will not be 'each.'” “True.” “But its participation in the one clearly implies that it is other than the one, for if not, it would not partake of the one, but would actually be one; but really it is impossible for anything except one itself to be one.” “Yes, it is impossible.” “And both the whole and the part must necessarily participate in the one; for the one will be a whole of which the parts are parts, and again each individual one which is a part of a whole will be a part of the whole.” “Yes.” “And will not the things which participate in the one be other than the one while participating in it?” “Of course.” “But the things which are other than the one will be many; for if they were neither one nor more than one, they would not be anything.” “No.”“But since the things which participate in the one as a part and the one as a whole are more than one, must not those participants in the one be infinite in number?” “How so?” “Let us look at the question in this way. Is it not true that at the moment when they begin to participate in the one they are not one and do not participate in one?” “Clearly.” “Then they are multitudes, in which the one is not, are they not?” “Yes, they are multitudes.” “Well, then, if we should subtract from them in thought the smallest possible quantity, must not that which is subtracted, if it has no participation in one, be also a multitude, and not one?” “It must.” “And always when we consider the nature of the class, which makes it other than one, whatever we see of it at any time will be unlimited in number, will it not?” “Certainly.” “And, further, when each part becomes a part, straightway the parts are limited in relation to each other and to the whole, and the whole in relation to the parts.” “Undoubtedly.” “The result, then, to the things which are other than one, that from the one and the union of themselves with it there arises, as it appears, something different within themselves which gives them a limitation in relation to one another; but their own nature, when they are left to themselves, gives them no limits.” “So it appears.” “Then the things which are other than one, both as wholes and as parts, are both unlimited and partake of limitation.” “Certainly.” “And are they also both like and unlike one another and themselves?” “How is that?” “Inasmuch as they are all by their own nature unlimited, they are all in that respect affected in the same way.” “Certainly.” “And surely inasmuch as they all partake of limitation, they are all affected in the same way in that respect also.” “Obviously.” “And inasmuch as they are so affected as to be both limited and limitless, they are affected by affections which are the opposites of one another.” “Yes.” “But opposites are as unlike as possible.” “To be sure.” “Then with regard to either one of their two affections they are like themselves and each other, but with regard to both of them together they are utterly opposed and unlike.” “Yes, that must be true.” “Therefore the others are both like and unlike themselves and one another.” “So they are.” “And they are the same as one another and also other than one another, they are both in motion and at rest, and since we have proved these cases, we can easily show that the things which are other than one experience all the opposite affections.” “You are right.”“Then what if we now drop these matters as evident and again consider whether, if one is, the things other than one are as we have said, and there is no alternative.” “Certainly.” “Let us then begin at the beginning and ask, if one is, what must happen to the things which are other than one.” “By all means.” “Must not the one be separate from the others, and the others from the one?” “Why is that?” “Because there is nothing else besides these, which is other than one and other than the others. For when we have said 'one and the others' we have included all things.” “Yes, all things.” “Then there is nothing other than these, in which both the one and the others may be.” “No.” “Then the one and the others can never be in the same.” “Apparently not.” “Then they are separate?” “Yes.” “And surely we say that what is truly one has no parts.” “How can it have parts?” “Then the one cannot be in the others as a whole, nor can parts of it, if it is separate from the others and has no parts.” “Of course not.” “Then the others cannot partake of the one in any way; they can neither partake of any part of it nor of the whole.” “No, apparently not.” “The others are, then, not one in any sense, nor have they in themselves any unity.” “No.” “But neither are the others many; for if they were many, each of them would be one part of the whole; but actually the things that are other than one are not many nor a whole nor parts, since they do not participate in the one in any way.” “Right.” “Neither are the others two or three, nor are two or three in them, if they are entirely deprived of unity.” “True.”“Nor are the others either themselves like and unlike the one, nor are likeness and unlikeness in them; for if they were like and unlike or had likeness and unlikeness in them, the things which are other than the one would have in them two elements opposite to one another.” “That is clear.” “But it is impossible for that to partake of two things which does not even partake of one.” “Impossible.” “The others are, then, not like nor unlike nor both. For if they were like or unlike, they would partake of one of the two elements, and if they were both, of the two opposites and that was shown to be impossible.” “True.”“They are, then, neither the same nor other, nor in motion nor at rest, nor becoming nor being destroyed, nor greater nor less nor equal, and they experience no similar affections; for if the others are subject to such affections, they will participate in one and two and three and odd and even, in which we saw that they cannot participate, if they are in every way utterly deprived of unity.” “Very true.” “Therefore if one exists, the one is all things and nothing at all in relation both to itself and to all others.” “Perfectly true.”“Well, and ought we not next to consider what must happen if one does not exist?” “Yes, we ought.” “What, then, is the sense of this hypothesis—if one does not exist?” “Is it different in any way from this—if not one does not exist?” “Certainly it is different.” “Is it merely different, or are the two expressions—if not one does not exist and if one does not exist—complete opposites?” “They are complete opposites.” “Now if a person should say 'if greatness does not exist', 'if smallness does not exist,' or anything of that sort, would he not make it clear that in each case the thing he speaks of as not existing is different?” “Certainly.” “And in our case does he not make it clear that he means, when he says 'if one is not,' that the thing which is not is different from other things, and do we not know what he means?” “Yes, we do know.” “In the first place, then, he speaks of something which is known, and secondly of something different from other things, when he says 'one,' whether he adds to it that it is or that it is not; for that which is said to be non-existent is known none the less, and is known to be different from other things, is it not?” “Certainly.” “Then we should begin at the beginning by asking: if one is not, what must follow? In the first place this must be true of the one, that there is knowledge of it, or else not even the meaning of the words 'if the one does not exist' would be known.” “True.” “And is it not also true that the others differ from the one, or it cannot be said to differ from the others?” “Certainly.” “Then a difference belongs to the one in addition to knowledge; for when we say that the one differs from the others, we speak of a difference in the one, not in the others.” “That is clear.” “And the non-existent one partakes of 'that' and 'some' and 'this' and 'relation to this' and 'these' and all notions of that sort; for the one could not be spoken of, nor could the things which are other than one, nor could anything in relation to the one or belonging to it be or be spoken of, if the one did not partake of the notion some or of those other notions.” “True.” “It is impossible for the one to be, if it does not exist, but nothing prevents its partaking of many things; indeed it must do so, if that one of which we are speaking, and not something else, is not. But if neither the one, nor 'that,' is not, but we are speaking of something else, there is no use in saying anything at all;i.e. if non-existence cannot be predicated either of the one (unitas) or of that (illuditas), but that of which we predicate non-existence is something else, then we may as well stop talking. It has just been affirmed that if that one of which we are speaking, and not something else, is not, then the one must partake of numerous attributes. Now it is affirmed that if the converse is true, further discussion is futile. but if non-existence is the property of that one, and not of something else, then the one must partake of 'that' and of many other attributes.” “Yes, certainly.”“And it will possess unlikeness in relation to other things for the things which are other than one, being different, will be of a different kind.” “Yes.” “And are not things which are of a different kind also of another kind?” “Of course.” “And things which are of another kind are unlike, are they not?” “Yes, they are unlike.” “Then if they are unlike the one, the one is evidently unlike the things which are unlike it.” “Evidently.” “Then the one possesses unlikeness in relation to which the others are unlike.” “So it appears.” “But if it possesses unlikeness to the others, must it not possess likeness to itself?” “How is that?” “If the one possesses unlikeness to the one, our argument will not be concerned with that which is of the nature of the one, and our hypothesis will not relate to the one, but to something other than one.” “Certainly.” “But that is inadmissible.” “It certainly is.” “Then the one must possess likeness to itself.” “It must.”“And neither is the one equal to the others; for if it were equal, then it would both be and be like them in respect to equality, both of which are impossible, if one does not exist.” “Yes, they are impossible.” “And since it is not equal to the others, they cannot be equal to it, can they?” “Certainly not.” “And things which are not equal are unequal, are they not?” “Yes.” “And things which are unequal are unequal to something which is unequal to them?” “Of course.” “Then the one partakes of inequality, in respect to which the others are unequal to it?” “Yes, it does.” “But greatness and smallness are constituents of inequality.” “Yes.” “Then the one, such as we are discussing, possesses greatness and smallness?” “So it appears.” “Now surely greatness and smallness always keep apart from one another.” “Certainly.” “Then there is always something between them.” “There is.” “Can you think of anything between them except equality?” “No, only equality.” “Then anything which has greatness and smallness has also equality, which is between the two.” “That is clear.” “Then the non-existent one, it appears, partakes of equality and greatness and smallness.” “So it appears.”“And it must also, in a way, partake of existence.” “How is that?” “It must be in such conditions as we have been saying; for if it were not, we should not be speaking the truth in saying that the one is not. And if we speak the truth, it is clear that we say that which is. Am I not right?” “You are.” “Then inasmuch as we assert that we are speaking the truth, we necessarily assert that we say that which is.” “Necessarily.” “Then, as it appears, the non-existent one exists. For if it is not non-existent, but gives up something of being to not-being,i.e. if it ceases to be non-existent, gives up something of being (as applied to non-existence) to not-being, so that it no longer is non-existent, but is not non-existent. then it will be existent.” “Certainly.” “Then if it does not exist and is to continue to be non-existent, it must have the existence of not-being as a bond, just as being has the non-existence of not-being, in order to attain its perfect existence. For in this way the existence of the existent and the non-existence of the non-existent would be best assured, when the existent partakes of the existence of being existent and of the non-existence of not being non-existent, thus assuring its own perfect existence, and the non-existent partakes of the non-existence of not being existent and the existence of being non-existent, and thus the non-existent also secures its perfect non-existence.” “Very true.” “Then since the existent partakes of non-existence and the non-existent of existence, the one, since it does not exist, necessarily partakes of existence to attain non-existence.” “Yes, necessarily.” “Clearly, then, the one, if it does not exist, has existence.” “Clearly.” “And non-existence also, if it does not exist.” “Of course.”“Well, can anything which is in a certain condition be not in that condition without changing from it?” “No, it cannot.” “Then everything of that sort—if a thing is and is not in a given condition—signifies a change.” “Of course.” “But change is motion; we agree to that?” “It is motion.” “And did we not see that the one is and is not?” “Yes.” “Then we see that it both is and is not in a given condition.” “So it appears.” “And we have seen that the non-existent one has motion, since it changes from being to not-being.” “There is not much doubt of that.” “But if it is nowhere among existing things—and it is nowhere, if it does not exist—it cannot move from any place to another.” “Of course not.” “Then its motion cannot be change of place.” “No, it cannot.” “Nor surely can it turn in the same spot, for it nowhere touches the same for the same is existent, and the non-existent cannot be in any existent thing.” “No, it is impossible.” “Then the one, being non-existent, cannot turn in that in which it is not.” “No.” “And the one, whether existent or non-existent, cannot change into something other than itself; for if it changed into something other than itself, our talk would no longer be about the one, but about something else.” “Quite right.” “But if it neither changes into something else, nor turns in the same spot, nor changes its place, can it still move in any way?” “No how can it?” “But surely that which is without motion must keep still, and that which keeps still must be at rest.” “Yes, it must.” “Then the non-existent one is both at rest and in motion.” “So it appears.” “And if it is in motion, it certainly must change in its nature; for if anything is moved in any way, in so far as it is moved it is no longer in its former condition, but in a different one.” “True.” “Then in moving, the one changes in nature.” “Yes.” “And yet when it does not move in any way, it will not change its nature in any way.” “No.” “Then in so far as the non-existent one moves, it changes, and in so far as it does not move, it does not change.” “True.” “Then the non-existent one both changes and does not change.” “So it appears.” “And must not that which changes come into a state of being other than its previous one, and perish, so far as its previous state is concerned; whereas that which does not change neither comes into being nor perishes?” “That is inevitable.” “Then the non-existent one, when it is changed, comes into being and perishes, and when it is not changed, neither comes into being nor perishes and thus the non-existent one both comes into being and perishes and neither comes into being nor perishes.” “Quite true.”“Let us now go back again to the beginning and see whether the conclusions we reach will be the same as at present, or different.” “Yes, we should do that.” “We ask, then, if the one is not, what will be the consequences in regard to it?” “Yes.” “Does the expression 'is not' denote anything else than the absence of existence in that of which we say that it is not?” “No, nothing else.” “And when we say that a thing is not, do we mean that it is in a way and is not in a way? Or does the expression 'is not' mean without any qualifications that the non-existent is not in any way, shape, or manner, and does not participate in being in any way?” “Without any qualifications whatsoever.” “Then the non-existent cannot be and cannot in any other way partake of existence.” “No.” “But were coming into being and perishing anything else than receiving and losing existence.” “No, nothing else.” “But that which has no participation in it can neither receive it nor lose it.” “Of course not.” “Then the one, since it does not exist in any way, cannot possess or lose or share in existence at all.” “That is reasonable.” “Then the non-existent one neither perishes nor comes into being, since it participates in no way in existence.” “No; that is clear.” “Then it is not changed in nature at all; for such change involves coming into being and perishing.” “True.” “And if it is not changed, it cannot move, either, can it?” “Certainly not.” “And we cannot say that that which is nowhere is at rest; for that which is at rest must always be in some place which is the same.” “Yes, of course, the same place.” “Thus we shall say again that the non-existent one is neither at rest nor in motion.” “No, neither.” “Nor can anything which exists pertain to it for the moment it partook of anything which exists it would partake of existence.” “That is plain.” “Then neither greatness nor smallness nor equality pertains to it.” “No.” “Nor likeness nor difference, either in relation to itself or to other things.” “Clearly not.” “And can other things pertain to it, if nothing pertains to it?” “Impossible.” “Then the other things are neither like it nor unlike it, nor the same nor different.” “No.” “Well, then, will the notions 'of that' or 'to that' or 'some,' or 'this' or 'of this' or 'of another' or 'to another' or past or future or present or knowledge or opinion or perception or definition or name or anything else which exists pertain to the non-existent?” “No.” “Then the non-existent one has no state or condition whatsoever.” “It appears to have none whatsoever.” “Let us then discuss further what happens to the other things, if the one does not exist.” “Let us do so.” “Well, they must exist; for if others do not even exist, there could be no talking about the others.” “True.” “But if we talk about the others, the others are different. Or do you not regard the words other and different as synonymous?” “Yes, I do.” “And we say that the different is different from the different, and the other is other than the other?” “Yes.” “Then if the others are to be others, there must be something of which they will be others.” “Yes, there must be.” “Now what can that be? For they cannot be others of the one, if it does not exist.” “No.” “Then they are others of each other; for they have no alternative, except to be others of nothing.” “True.” “They are each, then, others of each other, in groups; for they cannot be so one at a time, if one does not exist. But each mass of them is unlimited in number, and even if you take what seems to be the smallest bit, it suddenly changes, like something in a dream that which seemed to be one is seen to be many, and instead of very small it is seen to be very great in comparison with the minute fractions of it.” “Very true.” “Such masses of others would be others of each other, if others exist and one does not exist.” “Certainly.” “There will, then, be many masses, each of which appears to be one, but is not one, if one does not exist?” “Yes.” “And they will seem to possess, number, if each seems to be one and they are many.” “Certainly.” “And some will seem to be even and others odd, but all that will be unreal, if the one does not exist.” “True.” “And there will, we assert, seem to be a smallest among them but this proves to be many and great in comparison with each of the many minute fractions.” “Of course.” “And each mass will be considered equal to the many minute fractions for it could not appear to pass from greater to smaller, without seeming to enter that which is between them; hence the appearance of equality.” “That is reasonable.” “And although it has a limit in relation to another mass, it has neither beginning nor limit nor middle in relation to itself?” “Why is that?” “Because whenever the mind conceives of any of these as belonging to the masses, another beginning appears before the beginning, another end remains after the end, and in the middle are other more central middles than the middle, but smaller, because it is impossible to conceive of each one of them, since the one does not exist.” “Very true.” “So all being which is conceived by any mind must, it seems to me, be broken up into minute fractions; for it would always be conceived as a mass devoid of one.” “Certainly.” “Now anything of that sort, if seen from a distance and dimly, must appear to be one, but if seen from close at hand and with keen vision, each apparent one must prove to be unlimited in number, if it is really devoid of one, and one does not exist. Am I right?” “That is perfectly conclusive.” “Therefore the other things must each and all appear to be unlimited and limited and one and many, if the things other than one exist and one does not.” “Yes, they must.” “And will they not also appear to be like and unlike?” “Why?” “Just as things in a picture, when viewed from a distance, appear to be all in one and the same condition and alike.” “Certainly.” “But when you come close to them they appear to be many and different, and, because of their difference in appearance, different in kind and unlike each other.” “Yes.” “And so the groups of the other things must appear to be like and unlike themselves and each other.” “Certainly.” “And also the same and different, and in contact with one another and separated, and in all kinds of motion and in every sort of rest, and coming into being and perishing, and neither of the two, and all that sort of thing, which we can easily mention in detail, if the many exist and the one does not.” “Very true.”“Let us, then, go back once more to the beginning and tell the consequences, if the others exist and the one does not.” “Let us do so.” “Well, the others will not be one?” “Of course not.” “Nor will they be many for if they were many, one would be contained in them. And if none of them is one, they are all nothing, so that they cannot be many.” “True.” “If one is not contained in the others, the others are neither many nor one.” “No.” “And they do not even appear to be one or many.” “Why is that?” “Because the others have no communion in any way whatsoever with anything which is non-existent, and nothing that is non-existent pertains to any of the others, for things that are non-existent have no parts.” “True.” “Nor is there any opinion or appearance of the non-existent in connection with the others, nor is the non-existent conceived of in any way whatsoever as related to the others.” “No.” “Then if one does not exist, none of the others will be conceived of as being one or as being many, either; for it is impossible to conceive of many without one.” “True, it is impossible.” “Then if one does not exist, the others neither are nor are conceived to be either one or many.” “No so it seems.” “Nor like nor unlike.” “No.” “Nor the same nor different, nor in contact nor separate, nor any of the other things which we were saying they appeared to be. The others neither are nor appear to be any of these, if the one does not exist.” “True.” “Then if we were to say in a word, 'if the one is not, nothing is,' should we be right?” “Most assuredly.” “Then let us say that, and we may add, as it appears, that whether the one is or is not, the one and the others in relation to themselves and to each other all in every way are and are not and appear and do not appear.” “Very true.”

Observe, then, Protarchus, what the doctrine is which you are now to accept from Philebus, and what our doctrine is, against which you are to argue, if you do not agree with it. Shall we make a brief statement of each of them?

By all means.

Very well: Philebus says that to all living beings enjoyment and pleasure and gaiety and whatever accords with that sort of thing are a good; whereas our contention is that not these, but wisdom and thought and memory and their kindred, right opinion and true reasonings, are better and more excellent than pleasure for all who are capable of taking part in them, and that for all those now existing or to come who can partake of them they are the most advantageous of all things. Those are pretty nearly the two doctrines we maintain, are they not, Philebus?

Yes, Socrates, exactly.

And do you, Protarchus, accept this doctrine which is now committed to you?

I must accept it; for our handsome Philebus has withdrawn.

And must the truth about these doctrines be attained by every possible means?

Yes, it must.

Then let us further agree to this:

To what?

That each of us will next try to prove clearly that it is a condition and disposition of the soul which can make life happy for all human beings. Is not that what we are going to do?

It is.

Then you will show that it is the condition of pleasure, and I that it is that of wisdom?

True.

What if some other life be found superior to these two? Then if that life is found to be more akin to pleasure, both of us are defeated, are we not, by the life which has firm possession of this superiority, but the life of pleasure is victor over the life of wisdom.

Yes.

But if it is more akin to wisdom, then wisdom is victorious and pleasure is vanquished? Do you agree to that? Or what do you say?

Yes, I at least am satisfied with that.

But how about you, Philebus? What do you say?

I think and always shall think that pleasure is the victor. But you, Protarchus, will make your own decision.

Since you entrusted the argument to me, Philebus, you can no longer dictate whether to make the agreement with Socrates or not.

True; and for that reason I wash my hands of it and now call upon the goddessThe goddess of Pleasure,*(hdonh/personified. herself to witness that I do so.

And we also will bear witness to these words of yours. But all the same, Socrates, Philebus may agree or do as he likes, let us try to finish our argument in due order.

We must try, and let us begin with the very goddess who Philebus says is spoken of as Aphrodite but is most truly named Pleasure.

Quite right.

My awe, Protarchus, in respect to the names of the gods is always beyond the greatest human fear. And now I call Aphrodite by that name which is agreeable to her; but pleasure I know has various aspects, and since, as I said, we are to begin with her, we must consider and examine what her nature is. For, when you just simply hear her name, she is only one thing, but surely she takes on all sorts of shapes which are even, in a way, unlike each other. For instance, we say that the man who lives without restraint has pleasure, and that the self-restrained man takes pleasure in his very self-restraint; and again that the fool who is full of foolish opinions and hopes is pleased, and also that the wise man takes pleasure in his very wisdom. And would not any person who said these two kinds of pleasure were like each other be rightly regarded as a fool?

No, Socrates, for though they spring from opposite sources, they are not in themselves opposed to one another; for how can pleasure help being of all things most like pleasure, that is, like itself?

Yes, my friend, and color is like color in so far as every one of them is a color they will all be the same, yet we all recognize that black is not only different from white, but is its exact opposite. And so, too, figure is like figure; they are all one in kind but the parts of the kind are in some instances absolutely opposed to each other, and in other cases there is endless variety of difference; and we can find many other examples of such relations. Do not, therefore, rely upon this argument, which makes all the most absolute opposites identical. I am afraid we shall find some pleasures the opposites of other pleasures.

Perhaps; but why will that injure my contention?

Because I shall say that, although they are unlike, you apply to them a different designation. For you say that all pleasant things are good. Now no argument contends that pleasant things are not pleasant; but whereas most of them are bad and only some are good, as we assert, nevertheless you call them all good, though you confess, if forced to it by argument, that they are unlike. Now what is the identical element which exists in the good and bad pleasures alike and makes you call them all a good?

What do you mean, Socrates? Do you suppose anyone who asserts that the good is pleasure will concede, or will endure to hear you say, that some pleasures are good and others bad?

But you will concede that they are unlike and in some instances opposed to each other.

Not in so far as they are pleasures.

Here we are again at the same old argument, Protarchus, and we shall presently assert that one pleasure is not different from another, but all pleasures are alike, and the examples just cited do not affect us at all, but we shall behave and talk just like the most worthless and inexperienced reasoners.

In what way do you mean?

Why, if I have the face to imitate you and to defend myself by saying that the utterly unlike is most completely like that which is most utterly unlike it, I can say the same things you said, and we shall prove ourselves to be excessively inexperienced, and our argument will be shipwrecked and lost. Let us, then, back her out, and perhaps if we start fair again we may come to an agreement.

How? Tell me.

Assume, Protarchus, that I am questioned in turn by you.

What question do I ask?

Whether wisdom and knowledge and intellect and all the things which I said at first were good, when you asked me what is good, will not have the same fate as this argument of yours.

How is that?

It will appear that the forms of knowledge collectively are many and some of them are unlike each other; but if some of them turn out to be actually opposites, should I be fit to engage in dialectics now if, through fear of just that, I should say that no form of knowledge is unlike any other, and then, as a consequence, our argument should vanish and be lost, like a tale that is told, and we ourselves should be saved by clinging to some irrational notion?

No, that must never be, except the part about our being saved. However, I like the equal treatment of your doctrine and mine. Let us grant that pleasures are many and unlike and that the forms of knowledge are many and different.

With no concealment, then, Protarchus, of the difference between my good and yours, but with fair and open acknowledgement of it, let us be bold and see if perchance on examination they will tell us whether we should say that pleasure is the good, or wisdom, or some other third principle. For surely the object of our present controversy is not to gain the victory for my assertions or yours, but both of us must fight for the most perfect truth.

Yes, we must.

Then let us establish this principle still more firmly by means of an agreement.

What principle?

The principle which gives trouble to all men, to some of them sometimes against their will.

Speak more plainly.

I mean the principle which came in our way just now; its nature is quite marvellous. For the assertions that one is many and many are one are marvellous, and it is easy to dispute with anyone who makes either of them.

You mean when a person says that I, Protarchus, am by nature one and that there are also many of me which are opposites of each other, asserting that I, the same Protarchus, am great and small and heavy and light and countless other things?

Those wonders concerning the one and the many which you have mentioned, Protarchus, are common property, and almost everybody is agreed that they ought to be disregarded because they are childish and easy and great hindrances to speculation; and this sort of thing also should be disregarded, when a man in his discussion divides the members and likewise the parts of anything, acknowledges that they all collectively are that one thing, and then mockingly refutes himself because he has been compelled to declare miracles—that the one is many and infinite and the many only one.

But what other wonders do you mean, Socrates, in relation to this same principle, which are not yet common property and generally acknowledged?

I mean, my boy, when a person postulates unity which is not the unity of one of the things which come into being and perish, as in the examples we had just now. For in cases of a unity of that sort, as I just said, it is agreed that refutation is needless. But when the assertion is made that man is one, or ox is one, or beauty is one, or the good is one, the intense interest in these and similar unities becomes disagreement and controversy.

How is that?

The first question is whether we should believe that such unities really exist; the second, how these unities, each of which is one, always the same, and admitting neither generation nor destruction, can nevertheless be permanently this one unity; and the third, how in the infinite number of things which come into being this unity, whether we are to assume that it is dispersed and has become many, or that it is entirely separated from itself—which would seem to be the most impossible notion of all being the same and one, is to be at the same time in one and in many. These are the questions, Protarchus, about this kind of one and many, not those others, which cause the utmost perplexity, if ill solved, and are, if well solved, of the greatest assistance.

Then is it now, Socrates, our first duty to thresh this matter out?

Yes, that is what I should say.

You may assume, then, that we are all willing to agree with you about that; and perhaps it is best not to ask Philebus any questions; let sleeping dogs lie.

Very well; then where shall we begin this great and vastly complicated battle about the matters at issue? Shall we start at this point?

At what point?

We say that one and many are identified by reason, and always, both now and in the past, circulate everywhere in every thought that is uttered. This is no new thing and will never cease; it is, in my opinion, a quality within us which will never die or grow old, and which belongs to reason itself as such. And any young man, when he first has an inkling of this, is delighted, thinking he has found a treasure of wisdom; his joy fills him with enthusiasm; he joyously sets every possible argument in motion, sometimes in one direction, rolling things up and kneading them into one, and sometimes again unrolling and dividing them; he gets himself into a muddle first and foremost, then anyone who happens to be near him, whether he be younger or older or of his own age; he spares neither father nor mother nor any other human being who can hear, and hardly even the lower animals, for he would certainly not spare a foreigner,Apparently foreigners are considered among the lower animals. if he could get an interpreter anywhere.

Socrates, do you not see how many we are and that we are all young men? Are you not afraid that we shall join with Philebus and attack you, if you revile us? However—for we understand your meaning—if there is any way or means of removing this confusion gently from our discussion and finding some better road than this to bring us towards the goal of our argument, kindly lead on, and we will do our best to follow for our present discussion, Socrates, is no trifling matter.

No, it is not, boys, as Philebus calls you; and there certainly is no better road, nor can there ever be, than that which I have always loved, though it has often deserted me, leaving me lonely and forlorn.

What is the road? Only tell us.

One which is easy to point out, but very difficult to follow for through it all the inventions of art have been brought to light. See this is the road I mean.

Go on what is it?

A gift of gods to men, as I believe, was tossed down from some divine source through the agency of a Prometheus together with a gleaming fire; and the ancients, who were better than we and lived nearer the gods, handed down the tradition that all the things which are ever said to exist are sprung from one and many and have inherent in them the finite and the infinite. This being the way in which these things are arranged, we must always assume that there is in every case one idea of everything and must look for it—for we shall find that it is there—and if we get a grasp of this, we must look next for two, if there be two, and if not, for three or some other number; and again we must treat each of those units in the same way, until we can see not only that the original unit is one and many and infinite, but just how many it is. And we must not apply the idea of infinite to plurality until we have a view of its whole number between infinity and one; then, and not before, we may let each unit of everything pass on unhindered into infinity. The gods, then, as I said, handed down to us this mode of investigating, learning, and teaching one another; but the wise men of the present day make the one and the many too quickly or too slowly, in haphazard fashion, and they put infinity immediately after unity; they disregard all that lies between them, and this it is which distinguishes between the dialectic and the disputatious methods of discussion.

I think I understand you in part, Socrates, but I need a clearer statement of some things.

Surely my meaning, Protarchus, is made clear in the letters of the alphabet, which you were taught as a child; so learn it from them.

How?

Sound, which passes out through the mouth of each and all of us, is one, and yet again it is infinite in number.

Yes, to be sure.

And one of us is no wiser than the other merely for knowing that it is infinite or that it is one; but that which makes each of us a grammarian is the knowledge of the number and nature of sounds.

Very true.

And it is this same knowledge which makes the musician.

How is that?

Sound is one in the art of music also, so far as that art is concerned.

Of course.

And we may say that there are two sounds, low and high, and a third, which is the intermediate, may we not?

Yes.

But knowledge of these facts would not suffice to make you a musician, although ignorance of them would make you, if I may say so, quite worthless in respect to music.

Certainly.

But, my friend, when you have grasped the number and quality of the intervals of the voice in respect to high and low pitch, and the limits of the intervals, and all the combinations derived from them, which the men of former times discovered and handed down to us, their successors, with the traditional name of harmonies, and also the corresponding effects in the movements of the body, which they say are measured by numbers and must be called rhythms and measures—and they say that we must also understand that every one and many should be considered in this way— when you have thus grasped the facts, you have become a musician, and when by considering it in this way you have obtained a grasp of any other unity of all those which exist, you have become wise in respect to that unity. But the infinite number of individuals and the infinite number in each of them makes you in every instance indefinite in thought and of no account and not to be considered among the wise, so long as you have never fixed your eye upon any definite number in anything.

I think, Philebus, that what Socrates has said is excellent.

So do I; it is excellent in itself, but why has he said it now to us, and what purpose is there in it?

Protarchus, that is a very proper question which Philebus has asked us.

Certainly it is, so please answer it.

I will, when I have said a little more on just this subject. For if a person begins with some unity or other, he must, as I was saying, not turn immediately to infinity, but to some definite number; now just so, conversely, when he has to take the infinite first, he must not turn immediately to the one, but must think of some number which possesses in each case some plurality, and must end by passing from all to one. Let us revert to the letters of the alphabet to illustrate this.

How?

When some one, whether god or godlike man,—there is an Egyptian story that his name was Theuth—observed that sound was infinite, he was the first to notice that the vowel sounds in that infinity were not one, but many, and again that there were other elements which were not vowels but did have a sonant quality, and that these also had a definite number; and he distinguished a third kind of letters which we now call mutes. Then he divided the mutes until he distinguished each individual one, and he treated the vowels and semivowels in the same way, until he knew the number of them and gave to each and all the name of letters. Perceiving, however, that none of us could learn any one of them alone by itself without learning them all, and considering that this was a common bond which made them in a way all one, he assigned to them all a single science and called it grammar.

I understand that more clearly than the earlier statement, Protarchus, so far as the reciprocal relations of the one and the many are concerned, but I still feel the same lack as a little while ago.

Do you mean, Philebus, that you do not see what this has to do with the question?

Yes; that is what Protarchus and I have been trying to discover for a long time.

Really, have you been trying, as you say, for long time to discover it, when it was close to you all the while?

How is that?

Was not our discussion from the beginning about wisdom and pleasure and which of them is preferable?

Yes, of course.

And surely we say that each of them is one.

Certainly.

This, then, is precisely the question which the previous discussion puts to us: How is each of them one and many, and how is it that they are not immediately infinite, but each possesses a definite number, before the individual phenomena become infinite?

Philebus, somehow or other Socrates has led us round and plunged us into a serious question. Consider which of us shall answer it. Perhaps it is ridiculous that I, after taking your place in entire charge of the argument, should ask you to come back and answer this question because I cannot do so, but I think it would be still more ridiculous if neither of us could answer. Consider, then, what we are to do. For I think Socrates is asking us whether there are or are not kinds of pleasure, how many kinds there are, and what their nature is, and the same of wisdom.

You are quite right, son of Callias; for, as our previous discussion showed, unless we can do this in the case of every unity, every like, every same, and their opposites, none of us can ever be of any use in anything.

That, Socrates, seems pretty likely to be true. However, it is splendid for the wise man to know everything, but the next best thing, it seems, is not to be ignorant of himself. I will tell you why I say that at this moment. You, Socrates, have granted to all of us this conversation and your cooperation for the purpose of determining what is the best of human possessions. For when Philebus said it was pleasure and gaiety and enjoyment and all that sort of thing, you objected and said it was not those things, but another sort, and we very properly keep reminding ourselves voluntarily of this, in order that both claims may be present in our memory for examination. You, as it appears, assert that the good which is rightly to be called better than pleasure is mind, knowledge, intelligence, art, and all their kin; you say we ought to acquire these, not that other sort. When those two claims were made and an argument arose, we playfully threatened that we would not let you go home until the discussion was brought to some satisfactory conclusion. You agreed and put yourself at our disposal for that purpose. Now, we say that, as children put it, you cannot take back a gift once fairly given. So cease this way of meeting all that we say.

What way do you mean?

I mean puzzling us and asking questions to which we cannot at the moment give a satisfactory answer. Let us not imagine that the end of our present discussion is a mere puzzling of us all, but if we cannot answer, you must do so; for you gave us a promise. Consider, therefore, whether you yourself must distinguish the kinds of pleasure and knowledge or will let that go, in case you are able and willing to make clear in some other way the matters now at issue among us.

I need no longer anticipate anything terrible, since you put it in that way; for the words “in case you are willing” relieve me of all fear. And besides, I think some god has given me a vague recollection.

How is that, and what is the recollection about?

I remember now having heard long ago in a dream, or perhaps when I was awake, some talk about pleasure and wisdom to the effect that neither of the two is the good, but some third thing, different from them and better than both. However, if this be now clearly proved to us, pleasure is deprived of victory for the good would no longer be identical with it. Is not that true?

It is.

And we shall have, in my opinion, no longer any need of distinguishing the kinds of pleasure. But the progress of the discussion will make that still clearer.

Excellent! Just go on as you have begun.

First, then, let us agree on some further small points.

What are they?

Is the nature of the good necessarily perfect or imperfect?

The most perfect of all things, surely, Socrates.

Well, and is the good sufficient?

Of course; so that it surpasses all other things in sufficiency.

And nothing, I should say, is more certain about it than that every intelligent being pursues it, desires it, wishes to catch and get possession of it, and has no interest in anything in which the good is not included.

There is no denying that.

Let us, then, look at the life of pleasure and the life of wisdom separately and consider and judge them.

How do you mean?

Let there be no wisdom in the life of pleasure and no pleasure in the life of wisdom. For if either of them is the good, it cannot have need of anything else, and if, either be found to need anything, we can no longer regard it as our true good.

No, of course not.

Shall we then undertake to test them through you?

By all means.

Then answer.

Ask.

Would you, Protarchus, be willing to live your whole life in the enjoyment of the greatest pleasures?

Of course I should.

Would you think you needed anything further, if you were in complete possession of that enjoyment?

Certainly not.

But consider whether you would not have some need of wisdom and intelligence and power of calculating your wants and the like.

Why should I? If I have enjoyment, I have everything.

Then living thus you would enjoy the greatest pleasures all your life?

Yes; why not?

But if you did not possess mind or memory or knowledge or true opinion, in the first place, you would not know whether you were enjoying your pleasures or not. That must be true, since you are utterly devoid of intellect, must it not?

Yes, it must.

And likewise, if you had no memory you could not even remember that you ever did enjoy pleasure, and no recollection whatever of present pleasure could remain with you; if you had no true opinion you could not think you were enjoying pleasure at the time when you were enjoying it, and if you were without power of calculation you would not be able to calculate that you would enjoy it in the future; your life would not be that of a man, but of a mollusc or some other shell-fish like the oyster. Is that true, or can we imagine any other result?

We certainly cannot.

And can we choose such a life?

This argument, Socrates, has made me utterly speechless for the present.

Well, let us not give in yet. Let us take up the life of mind and scrutinize that in turn.

What sort of life do you mean?

I ask whether anyone would be willing to live possessing wisdom and mind and knowledge and perfect memory of all things, but having no share, great or small, in pleasure, or in pain, for that matter, but being utterly unaffected by everything of that sort.

Neither of the two lives can ever appear desirable to me, Socrates, or, I think, to anyone else.

How about the combined life, Protarchus, made up by a union of the two?

You mean a union of pleasure with mind or wisdom?

Yes, I mean a union of such elements.

Every one will prefer this life to either of the two others—yes, every single person without exception.

Then do we understand the consequences of what we are now saying?

Certainly. Three lives have been proposed, and of two of them neither is sufficient or desirable for man or any other living being.

Then is it not already clear that neither of these two contained the good for if it did contain the good, it would be sufficient and perfect, and such as to be chosen by all living creatures which would be able to live thus all their lives; and if any of us chose anything else, he would be choosing contrary to the nature of the truly desirable, not of his own free will, but from ignorance or some unfortunate necessity.

That seems at any rate to be true.

And so I think we have sufficiently proved that PhilebusÕs divinity is not to be considered identical with the good.

But neither is your “mind” the good, Socrates; it will be open to the same objections.

My mind, perhaps, Philebus; but not so, I believe, the true mind, which is also divine; that is different. I do not as yet claim for mind the victory over the combined life, but we must look and see what is to be done about the second place; for each of us might perhaps put forward a claim, one that mind is the cause of this combined life, the other that pleasure is the cause and thus neither of these two would be the good, but one or the other of them might be regarded as the cause of the good. On this point I might keep up the fight all the more against Philebus and contend that in this mixed life it is mind that is more akin and more similar than pleasure to that, whatever it may be, which makes it both desirable and good; and from this point of view pleasure could advance no true claim to the first or even the second place. It is farther behind than the third place, if my mind is at all to be trusted at present.

Certainly, Socrates, it seems to me that pleasure has fought for the victory and has fallen in this bout, knocked down by your words. And we can only say, as it seems, that mind was wise in not laying claim to the victory; for it would have met with the same fate. Now pleasure, if she were to lose the second prize, would be deeply humiliated in the eyes of her lovers; for she would no longer appear even to them so lovely as before.

Well, then, is it not better to leave her now and not to pain her by testing her to the utmost and proving her in the wrong?

Nonsense, Socrates!

Nonsense because I spoke of paining pleasure, and that is impossible?

Not only that, but because you do not understand that not one of us will let you go yet until you have finished the argument about these matters.

Whew, Protarchus! Then we have a long discussion before us, and not an easy one, either, this time. For in going ahead to fight mindÕs battle for the second place, I think I need a new contrivance—other weapons, as it were, than those of our previous discussion, though perhaps some of the old ones will serve. Must I then go on?

Of course you must.

Then let us try to be careful in making our beginning.

What kind of a beginning do you mean?

Let us divide all things that now exist in the universe into two, or rather, if you please, three classes.

Please tell us on what principle you would divide them.

Let us take some of the subjects of our present discussion.

What subjects?

We said that God revealed in the universe two elements, the infinite and the finite, did we not?

Certainly.

Let us, then, assume these as two of our classes, and a third, made by combining these two. But I cut a ridiculous figure, it seems, when I attempt a division into classes and an enumeration.

What do you mean, my friend?

I think we need a fourth class besides.

Tell us what it is.

Note the cause of the combination of those two and assume that as the fourth in addition to the previous three.

And then will you not need a fifth, which has the power of separation?

Perhaps; but not at present, I think. However, if we do need a fifth, you will pardon me for going after it.

Of course.

First, then, let us take three of the four and, as we see that two of these are split up and scattered each one into many, let us try, by collecting each of them again into one, to learn how each of them was both one and many.

If you could tell me more clearly about them, I might be able to follow you.

I mean, then, that the two which I select are the same which I mentioned before, the infinite and the finite. I will try to show that the infinite is, in a certain sense, many; the finite can wait.

Yes.

Consider then. What I ask you to consider is difficult and debatable; but consider it all the same. In the first place, take hotter and colder and see whether you can conceive any limit of them, or whether the more and less which dwell in their very nature do not, so long as they continue to dwell therein, preclude the possibility of any end; for if there were any end of them, the more and less would themselves be ended.

Very true.

But always, we affirm, in the hotter and colder there is the more and less.

Certainly.

Always, then, the argument shows that these two have no end; and being endless, they are of course infinite.

Most emphatically, Socrates.

I am glad you responded, my dear Protarchus, and reminded me that the word “emphatically “which you have just used, and the word “gently” have the same force as “more” and “less.” For wherever they are present, they do not allow any definite quantity to exist; they always introduce in every instance a comparison—more emphatic than that which is quieter, or vice versa—and thus they create the relation of more and less, thereby doing away with fixed quantity. For, as I said just now, if they did not abolish quantity, but allowed it and measure to make their appearance in the abode of the more and less, the emphatically and gently, those latter would be banished from their own proper place. When once they had accepted definite quantity, they would no longer be hotter or colder; for hotter and colder are always progressing and never stationary; but quantity is at rest and does not progress. By this reasoning hotter and its opposite are shown to be infinite.

That appears to be the case, Socrates; but, as you said, these subjects are not easy to follow. Perhaps, however, continued repetition might lead to a satisfactory agreement between the questioner and him who is questioned.

That is a good suggestion, and I must try to carry it out. However, to avoid waste of time in discussing all the individual examples, see if we can accept this as a designation of the infinite.

Accept what?

All things which appear to us to become more or less, or to admit of emphatic and gentle and excessive and the like, are to be put in the class of the infinite as their unity, in accordance with what we said a while ago, if you remember, that we ought to collect all things that are scattered and split up and impress upon them to the best of our ability the seal of some single nature.

I remember.

And the things which do not admit of more and less and the like, but do admit of all that is opposed to them—first equality and the equal, then the double, and anything which is a definite number or measure in relation to such a number or measure— all these might properly be assigned to the class of the finite. What do you say to that?

Excellent, Socrates.

Well, what shall we say is the nature of the third class, made by combining these two?

You will tell me, I fancy, by answering your own question.

Nay, a god will do so, if any god will give ear to my prayers.

Pray, then, and watch.

I am watching; and I think, Protarchus, one of the gods has this moment been gracious unto me.

What do you mean, and what evidence have you?

I will tell you, of course. Just follow what I say.

Say on.

We spoke just now of hotter and colder, did we not?

Yes.

Add to them drier and wetter, more and less, quicker and slower, greater and smaller, and all that we assigned before to the class which unites more and less.

You mean the class of the infinite?

Yes. Mix with that the second class, the offspring of the limit.

What class do you mean?

The class of the finite, which we ought just now to have reduced to unity, as we did that of the infinite. We have not done that, but perhaps we shall even now accomplish the same end, if these two are both unified and then the third class is revealed.

What third class, and what do you mean?

The class of the equal and double and everything which puts an end to the differences between opposites and makes them commensurable and harmonious by the introduction of number.

I understand. I think you mean that by mixture of these elements certain results are produced in each instance.

Yes, you are right.

Go on.

In cases of illness, does not the proper combination of these elements produce health?

Certainly.

And in the acute and the grave, the quick and the slow, which are unlimited, the addition of these same elements creates a limit and establishes the whole art of music in all its perfection, does it not?

Excellent.

And again in the case of cold and hot weather, the introduction of these elements removes the excess and indefiniteness and creates moderation and harmony.

Assuredly.

And thence arise the seasons and all the beauties of our world, by mixture of the infinite with the finite?

Of course.

There are countless other things which I pass over, such as health, beauty, and strength of the body and the many glorious beauties of the soul. For this goddess,This goddess may be*MOUSIKH/(in which caseE)GGENOME/NHthe reading of T and G, would be preferable toE)GGENO/MENAabove), not music in the restricted modern sense, but the spirit of numbers and measure which underlies all music, and all the beauties of the world; or the goddess may be mentioned here in reference (and opposition) to the goddess Pleasure (12 B); she is the nameless deity who makes Pleasure and all others conform to her rules. my fair Philebus, beholding the violence and universal wickedness which prevailed, since there was no limit of pleasures or of indulgence in them, established law and order, which contain a limit. You say she did harm; I say, on the contrary, she brought salvation. What do you think, Protarchus?

What you say, Socrates, pleases me greatly.

I have spoken of these three classes, you observe.

Yes, I believe I understand; I think you mean that the infinite is one class and the finite is another class among existing things; but what you wish to designate as the third class, I do not comprehend very well.

No, because the multitude which springs up in the third class overpowers you and yet the infinite also comprised many classes, nevertheless, since they were sealed with the seal of the more and less, they were seen to be of one class.

True.

And the finite, again, did not contain many classes, nor were we disturbed about its natural unity.

Of course not.

No, not at all. And as to the third class, understand that I mean every offspring of these two which comes into being as a result of the measures created by the cooperation of the finite.

I understand.

But we said there was, in addition to three classes, a fourth to be investigated. Let us do that together. See whether you think that everything which comes into being must necessarily come into being through a cause.

Yes, I do; for how could it come into being apart from a cause?

Does not the nature of that which makes or creates differ only in name from the cause, and may not the creative agent and the cause be properly considered one?

Yes.

And, again, we shall find that, on the same principle, that which is made or created differs in name only from that which comes into being, shall we not?

We shall.

And the creative agent always naturally leads, and that which is created follows after it as it comes into being?

Certainly.

Then the cause and that which is the servant of the cause for the purpose of generation are not the same.

Of course not.

Did not the things which come into being and the things out of which they come into being furnish us all the three classes?

Certainly.

And that which produces all these, the cause, we call the fourth, as it has been satisfactorily shown to be distinct from the others?

Yes, it is distinct.

It is, then, proper, now that we have distinguished the four, to make sure that we remember them separately by enumerating them in order.

Yes, certainly.

The first, then, I call infinite, the second limit or finite, and the third something generated by a mixture of these two. And should I be making any mistake if I called the cause of this mixture and creation the fourth?

Certainly not.

Now what is the next step in our argument, and what was our purpose in coming to the point we have reached? Was it not this? We were trying to find out whether the second place belonged to pleasure or to wisdom, were we not?

Yes, we were.

And may we not, perhaps, now that we have finished with these points, be better able to come to a decision about the first and second places, which was the original subject of our discussion?

Perhaps.

Well then; we decided that the mixed life of pleasure and wisdom was the victor, did we not?

Yes.

And do we not see what kind of life this is, and to what class it belongs?

Of course we do.

We shall say that it belongs to the third class; for that class is not formed by mixture of any two things, but of all the things which belong to the infinite, bound by the finite; and therefore this victorious life would rightly be considered a part of this class.

Quite rightly.

Well then, what of your life, Philebus, of unmixed pleasure? In which of the aforesaid classes may it properly be said to belong? But before you tell me, please answer this question.

Ask your question.

Have pleasure and pain a limit, or are they among the things which admit of more and less?

Yes, they are among those which admit of the more, Socrates; for pleasure would not be absolute good if it were not infinite in number and degree.

Nor would pain, Philebus, be absolute evil; so it is not the infinite which supplies any element of good in pleasure; we must look for something else. Well, I grant you that pleasure and pain are in the class of the infinite but to which of the aforesaid classes, Protarchus and Philebus, can we now without irreverence assign wisdom, knowledge, and mind? I think we must find the right answer to this question, for our danger is great if we fail.

Oh Socrates, you exalt your own god.

And you your goddess, my friend. But the question calls for an answer, all the same.

Socrates is right, Philebus; you ought to do as he asks.

Did you not, Protarchus, elect to reply in my place?

Yes; but now I am somewhat at a loss, and I ask you, Socrates, to be our spokesman yourself, that we may not select the wrong representative and so say something improper.

I must do as you ask, Protarchus; and it is not difficult. But did I really, as Philebus said, embarrass you by playfully exalting my god, when I asked to what class mind and knowledge should be assigned?

You certainly did, Socrates.

Yet the answer is easy; for all philosophers agree—whereby they really exalt themselves—that mind is king of heaven and earth. Perhaps they are right. But let us, if you please, investigate the question of its class more at length.

Speak just as you like, Socrates. Do not consider length, so far as we are concerned you cannot bore us.

Good. Then let us begin by asking a question.

What is the question?

Shall we say, Protarchus, that all things and this which is called the universe are governed by an irrational and fortuitous power and mere chance, or, on the contrary, as our forefathers said, are ordered and directed by mind and a marvellous wisdom?

The two points of view have nothing in common, my wonderful Socrates. For what you are now saying seems to me actually impious. But the assertion that mind orders all things is worthy of the aspect of the world, of sun, moon, stars, and the whole revolving universe; I can never say or think anything else about it.

Do you, then, think we should assent to this and agree in the doctrine of our predecessors, not merely intending to repeat the words of others, with no risk to ourselves, but ready to share with them in the risk and the blame, if any clever man declares that this world is not thus ordered, but is without order?

Yes, of course I do.

Then observe the argument that now comes against us.

Go on.

We see the elements which belong to the natures of all living beings, fire, water, air, and earth—or, as the storm-tossed mariners say, land in sight— in the constitution of the universe.

Certainly and we are truly storm-tossed in the puzzling cross-currents of this discussion.

Well, here is a point for you to consider in relation to each of these elements as it exists in us.

What is the point?

Each element in us is small and poor and in no way pure at all or endowed with the power which is worthy of its nature. Take one example and apply it to all. Fire, for instance, exists in us and also in the universe.

Of course.

And that which is in us is small, weak, and poor, but that which is in the universe is marvellous in quantity, beauty, and every power which belongs to fire.

What you say is very true.

Well, is the fire of the universe nourished, originated, and ruled by the fire within us, or, on the contrary, does my fire, and yours, and that of all living beings derive nourishment and all that from the universal fire?

That question does not even deserve an answer.

True; and you will, I fancy, say the same of the earth which is in us living creatures and that which is in the universe, and concerning all the other elements about which I asked a moment ago your answer will be the same.

Yes. Who could answer otherwise without being called a lunatic?

Nobody, I fancy. Now follow the next step. When we see that all the aforesaid elements are gathered together into a unit, do we not call them a body?

Of course.

Apply the same line of thought to that which we call the universe. It would likewise be a body, being composed of the same elements.

Quite right.

Does our body derive, obtain, and possess from that body, or that body from ours, nourishment and everything else that we mentioned just now?

That, Socrates, is another question not worth asking.

Well, is this next one worth asking? What will you say to it?

What is it?

Shall we not say that our body has a soul?

Clearly we shall.

Where did it get it, Protarchus, unless the body of the universe had a soul, since that body has the same elements as ours, only in every way superior?

Clearly it could get it from no other source.

No; for we surely do not believe, Protarchus, that of those four elements, the finite, the infinite, the combination, and the element of cause which exists in all things, this last, which gives to our bodies souls and the art of physical exercise and medical treatment when the body is ill, and which is in general a composing and healing power, is called the sum of all wisdom, and yet, while these same elements exist in the entire heaven and in great parts thereof, and area moreover, fair and pure, there is no means of including among them that nature which is the fairest and most precious of all.

Certainly there would be no sense in that.

Then if that is not the case, it would be better to follow the other line of thought and say, as we have often said, that there is in the universe a plentiful infinite and a sufficient limit, and in addition a by no means feeble cause which orders and arranges years and seasons and months, and may most justly be called wisdom and mind.

Yes, most justly.

Surely reason and mind could never come into being without soul.

No, never.

Then in the nature of Zeus you would say that a kingly soul and a kingly mind were implanted through the power of the cause, and in other deities other noble qualities from which they derive their favorite epithets.

Certainly.

Now do not imagine, Protarchus, that this is mere idle talk of mine; it confirms the utterances of those who declared of oldAnaxagoras and probably some now unknown precursors. that mind always rules the universe.

Yes, certainly.

And to my question it has furnished the reply that mind belongs to that one of our four classes which was called the cause of all. Now, you see, you have at last my answer.

Yes, and a very sufficient one and yet you answered without my knowing it.

Yes, Protarchus, for sometimes a joke is a restful change from serious talk.

You are right.

We have now, then, my friend, pretty clearly shown to what class mind belongs and what power it possesses.

Certainly.

And likewise the class of pleasure was made clear some time ago.

Yes, it was.

Let us, then, remember concerning both of them that mind was akin to cause and belonged more or less to that class, and that pleasure was itself infinite and belonged to the class which, in and by itself, has not and never will have either beginning or middle or end.

We will remember that, of course.

Our next task is to see in what and by means of what feeling each of them comes into being whenever they do come into being. We will take pleasure first and discuss these questions in relation to pleasure, as we examined its class first. But we cannot examine pleasure successfully apart from pain.

If that is our proper path, let us follow it.

Do you agree with us about the origin of pleasure?

What do you think it is?

I think pain and pleasure naturally originate in the combined class.

Please, my dear Socrates, remind us which of the aforesaid classes you mean by the combined class.

I will do so, as well as I can, my brilliant friend.

Thank you.

By combined class, then, let us understand that which we said was the third of the four.

The one you mentioned after the infinite and the finite, and in which you put health and also, I believe, harmony?

You are quite right. Now please pay very close attention.

I will. Say on.

I say, then, that when, in us living beings, harmony is broken up, a disruption of nature and a generation of pain also take place at the same moment.

What you say is very likely.

But if harmony is recomposed and returns to its own nature, then I say that pleasure is generated, if I may speak in the fewest and briefest words about matters of the highest import.

I think you are right, Socrates; but let us try to be more explicit.

It is easiest to understand common and obvious examples, is it not?

What examples?

Is hunger a kind of breaking up and a pain?

Yes.

And eating, which is a filling up again, is a pleasure?

Yes.

Thirst again is a destruction and a pain, but the filling with moisture of that which was dried up is a pleasure. Then, too, the unnatural dissolution and disintegration we experience through heat are a pain, but the natural restoration and cooling are a pleasure.

Certainly.

And the unnatural hardening of the moisture in an animal through cold is pain; but the natural course of the elements returning to their place and separating is a pleasure. See, in short, if you think it is a reasonable statement that whenever in the class of living beings, which, as I said before, arises out of the natural union of the infinite and the finite, that union is destroyed, the destruction is pain, and the passage and return of all things to their own nature is pleasure.

Let us accept that; for it seems to me to be true in its general lines.

Then we may assume this as one kind of pain and pleasure arising severally under the conditions I have described?

Let that be assumed.

Now assume within the soul itself the anticipation of these conditions, the sweet and cheering hope of pleasant things to come, the fearful and woful expectation of painful things to come.

Yes, indeed, this is another kind of pleasure and pain, which belongs to the soul itself, apart from the body, and arises through expectation.

You are right. I think that in these two kinds, both of which are, in my opinion, pure, and not formed by mixture of pain and pleasure, the truth about pleasure will be made manifest, whether the entire class is to be desired or such desirability is rather to be attributed to some other class among those we have mentioned, whereas pleasure and pain, like heat, cold, and other such things, are sometimes desirable and sometimes undesirable, because they are not good themselves, though some of them sometimes admit on occasion the nature of the good.

You are quite right in saying that we must track our quarry on this trail.

First, then, let us agree on this point: If it is true, as we said, that destruction is pain and restoration is pleasure, let us consider the case of living beings in which neither destruction nor restoration is going on, and what their state is under such conditions. Fix your mind on my question: Must not every living being under those conditions necessarily be devoid of any feeling of pain or pleasure, great or small?

Yes, necessarily.

Have we, then, a third condition, besides those of feeling pleasure and pain?

Certainly.

Well then, do your best to bear it in mind; for remembering or forgetting it will make a great difference in our judgement of pleasure. And I should like, if you do not object, to speak briefly about it.

Pray do so.

You know that there is nothing to hinder a man from living the life of wisdom in this manner.

You mean without feeling pleasure or pain?

Yes, for it was said, you know, in our comparison of the lives that he who chose the life of mind and wisdom was to have no feeling of pleasure, great or small.

Yes, surely, that was said.

Such a man, then, would have such a life; and perhaps it is not unreasonable, if that is the most divine of lives.

Certainly it is not likely that gods feel either joy or its opposite.

No, it is very unlikely; for either is unseemly for them. But let us reserve the discussion of that point for another time, if it is appropriate, and we will give mind credit for it in contending for the second place, if we cannot count it for the first.

Quite right.

Now the other class of pleasure, which we said was an affair of the soul alone, originates entirely in memory.

How is that?

We must, apparently, first take up memory, and perception even before memory, if these matters are to be made clear to us properly.

What do you mean?

Assume that some of the affections of our body are extinguished in the body before they reach the soul, leaving the soul unaffected, and that other affections permeate both body and soul and cause a vibration in both conjointly and in each individually.

Let us assume that.

Shall we be right in saying that the soul forgets those which do not permeate both, and does not forget those which do?

Yes, certainly.

Do not in the least imagine that when I speak of forgetting I mean that forgetfulness arises in this case; for forgetfulness is the departure of memory, and in the case under consideration memory has not yet come into being; now it is absurd to speak of the loss of that which does not exist and has not yet come into being, is it not?

Certainly.

Then just change the terms.

How?

Instead of saying that the soul forgets, when it is unaffected by the vibrations of the body, apply the term want of perception to that which you are now calling forgetfulness.

I understand.

And the union of soul and body in one common affection and one common motion you may properly call perception.

Very true.

Then do we now understand what we mean by perception?

Certainly.

I think, then, that memory may rightly be defined as the preservation of perception.

Quite rightly.

But do we not say that memory differs from recollection?

Perhaps.

And is this the difference?

What?

When the soul alone by itself, apart from the body, recalls completely any experience it has had in company with the body, we say that it recollects do we not?

Certainly.

And again when the soul has lost the memory of a perception or of something it has learned and then alone by itself regains this, we call everything of that kind recollection.

You are right.

Now my reason for saying all this is—

What?

That henceforth we may comprehend as completely and clearly as possible the pleasure of the soul, and likewise its desire, apart from the body; for both of these appear to be made plain by what has been said about memory and recollection.

Let us, then, Socrates, discuss the next point.

We must, it seems, consider many things in relation to the origin and general aspect of pleasure; but now I think our first task is to take up the nature and origin of desire.

Then let us examine that; for we shall not lose anything.

Oh yes, Protarchus, we shall lose a great deal! When we find what we are seeking we shall lose our perplexity about these very questions.

That is a fair counter; but let us try to take up the next point.

Did we not say just now that hunger, thirst, and the like were desires?

They are, decidedly.

What sort of identity have we in view when we call these, which are so different, by one name?

By Zeus, Socrates, that question may not be easy to answer, yet it must be answered.

Let us, then, begin again at that point with the same examples.

At what point?

We say of a thing on any particular occasion, “itÕs thirsty,” do we not?

Of course.

And that means being empty?

Certainly.

And is thirst, then, a desire?

Yes, of drink.

Of drink, or of being filled with drink?

Of being filled, I suppose.

The man, then, who is empty desires, as it appears, the opposite of what he feels for, being empty, he longs to be filled.

That is very plain.

Well then, is there any source from which a man who is empty at first can gain a comprehension, whether by perception or by memory, of fulness, a thing which he does not feel at the time and has never felt before?

It cannot be done.

And yet he who desires, desires something, we say.

Of course.

And he does not desire that which he feels; for he is thirsty, and that is emptiness, but he desires fulness.

Yes.

Then somehow some part of him who is thirsty can apprehend fulness.

Yes, obviously.

But it cannot be the body, for that is empty.

True.

The only remaining possibility is that the soul apprehends it, which it must do by means of memory; for what other means could it employ?

No other, I should say.

And do we understand the consequences of this argument?

What are the consequences?

This argument declares that we have no bodily desire.

How so?

Because it shows that the endeavor of every living being is always towards the opposite of the actual conditions of the body.

Yes, certainly.

And the impulse which leads towards the opposite of those conditions shows that there is a memory of the opposite of the conditions.

Certainly.

And the argument, by showing that memory is that which leads us towards the objects of desire, has proved that all the impulse, the desire, and the ruling principle in every living being are of the soul.

Quite right.

So the argument denies utterly that the body hungers or thirsts or has any such affection.

Very true.

Let us consider a further point in connection with those very affections. For I think the purpose of the argument is to point out to us a state of life existing in them.

Of what sort of life are you speaking, and in what affections does it exist?

In the affections of fulness and emptiness and all which pertain to the preservation and destruction of living beings, and I am thinking that if we fall into one of these we feel pain, which is followed by joy when we change to the other.

That is true.

And what if a man is between the two?

How between them?

Because of his condition, he is suffering, but he remembers the pleasures the coming of which would bring him an end of his pain; as yet, however, he does not possess them. Well then, shall we say that he is between the affections, or not?

Let us say so.

Shall we say that he is wholly pained or wholly pleased?

No, by Zeus, but he is afflicted with a twofold pain; he suffers in body from his sensation, and in soul from expectation and longing.

How could you, Protarchus, speak of twofold pain? Is not an empty man sometimes possessed of a sure hope of being filled, and sometimes, on the contrary, quite hopeless?

Certainly.

And do you not think that when he has a hope of being filled he takes pleasure in his memory, and yet at the same time, since he is at the moment empty, suffers pain?

It cannot be otherwise.

At such a time, then, a man, or any other animal, has both pain and pleasure at once.

Yes, I suppose so.

And when an empty man is without hope of being filled, what then? Is not that the time when the twofold feeling of pain would arise, which you just now observed and thought the pain simply was twofold?

Very true, Socrates.

Let us make use of our examination of those affections for a particular purpose.

For what purpose?

Shall we say that those pleasures and pains are true or false, or that some are true and others not so?

But, Socrates, how can there be false pleasures or pains?

But, Protarchus, how can there be true and false fears, or true and false expectations, or true and false opinions?

Opinions I would grant you, but not the rest.

What? I am afraid we are starting a very considerable discussion.

You are right.

And yet we must consider, thou son of that man,“Son of that man” may mean “son of Philebus,” in so far as Protarchus is a pupil of Philebus, or (so Bury) “son of Gorgias,” the orator and teacher (cf. Plat. Phaedo 58b), or the father of Protarchus may be referred to by the pronoun, possibly because Socrates does not at the moment recall his name or because he wishes to imply that he was a man of mark. whether the discussion is relevant to what has gone before.

Yes, no doubt.

We must dismiss everything else, tedious or otherwise, that is irrelevant.

Right.

Now tell me; for I am always utterly amazed by the same questions we were just proposing.

What do you mean?

Are not some pleasures false and others true?

How could that be?

Then, as you maintain, nobody, either sleeping or waking or insane or deranged, ever thinks he feels pleasure when he does not feel it, and never, on the other hand, thinks he suffers pain when he does not suffer it?

We have, Socrates, always believed that all this is as you suggest.

But is the belief correct? Shall we consider whether it is so or not?

I should say we ought to consider that.

Then let us analyze still more clearly what we were just now saying about pleasure and opinion. There is a faculty of having an opinion, is there not?

Yes.

And of feeling pleasure?

Yes.

And there is an object of opinion?

Of course.

And something by which that which feels pleasure is pleased?

Certainly.

And that which has opinion, whether right or wrong, never loses its function of really having opinion?

Of course not.

And that which feels pleasure, whether rightly or wrongly, will clearly never lose its function of really feeling pleasure?

Yes, that is true, too.

Then we must consider how it is that opinion is both true and false and pleasure only true, though the holding of opinion and the feeling of pleasure are equally real.

Yes, so we must.

You mean that we must consider this question because falsehood and truth are added as attributes to opinion, and thereby it becomes not merely opinion, but opinion of a certain quality in each instance?

Yes.

And furthermore, we must reach an agreement on the question whether, even if some things have qualities, pleasure and pain are not merely what they are, without qualities or attributes.

Evidently we must.

But it is easy enough to see that they have qualities. For we said a long time ago that both pains and pleasures are great and small and intense.

Yes, certainly.

And if badness becomes an attribute of any of these, Protarchus, shall we say that the opinion or the pleasure thereby becomes bad?

Why certainly, Socrates.

And what if rightness or its opposite becomes an attribute of one of them? Shall we not say that the opinion is right, if it has rightness, and the pleasure likewise?

Obviously.

And if that which is opined is mistaken, must we not agree that the opinion, since it is at the moment making a mistake, is not right or rightly opining?

Of course.

And what if we see a pain or a pleasure making a mistake in respect of that by which the pain or pleasure is caused? Shall we give it the attribute of right or good or any of the words which denote excellence?

That is impossible if the pleasure is mistaken.

And certainly pleasure often seems to come to us in connection with false, not true, opinion.

Of course it does; and in such a case, Socrates, we call the opinion false; but nobody would ever call the actual pleasure false.

You are an eager advocate of the case of pleasure just now, Protarchus.

Oh no, I merely say what I hear.

Is there no difference, my friend, between the pleasure which is connected with right opinion and knowledge and that which often comes to each of us with falsehood and ignorance?

There is likely to be a great difference.

Then let us proceed to the contemplation of the difference between them.

Lead on as you think best.

Then this is the way I lead.

What way?

Do we agree that there is such a thing as false opinion and also as true opinion?

There is.

And, as we were saying just now, pleasure and pain often follow them—I mean true and false opinion.

Certainly.

And do not opinion and the power of forming an opinion always come to us from memory and perception?

Certainly.

Do we, then, believe that our relation to these faculties is somewhat as follows?

How?

Would you say that often when a man sees things at a distance and not very clearly, he wishes to distinguish between the things which he sees?

Yes, I should say so.

Next, then, would he not ask himself—

What?

“What is that which is visible standing beside the rock under a tree?” Do you not think a man might ask himself such a question if he saw such objects presented to his view?

To be sure.

And after that our gazer might reply to himself correctly “It is a man”?

Certainly.

Or, again, perhaps he might be misled into the belief that it was a work of some shepherds, and then he would call the thing which he saw an image.

Yes, indeed.

And if some one is with him, he might repeat aloud to his companion what he had said to himself, and thus that which we called an opinion now becomes a statement?

Certainly.

But if he is alone when he has this thought, he sometimes carries it about in his mind for a long time.

Undoubtedly.

Well, is your view about what takes place in such cases the same as mine?

What is yours?

I think the soul at such a time is like a book.

How is that?

Memory unites with the senses, and they and the feelings which are connected with them seem to me almost to write words in our souls; and when the feeling in question writes the truth, true opinions and true statements are produced in us; but when the writer within us writes falsehoods, the resulting opinions and statements are the opposite of true.

That is my view completely, and I accept it as stated.

Then accept also the presence of another workman in our souls at such a time.

What workman?

A painter, who paints in our souls pictures to illustrate the words which the writer has written.

But how do we say he does this, and when?

When a man receives from sight or some other sense the opinions and utterances of the moment and afterwards beholds in his own mind the images of those opinions and utterances. That happens to us often enough, does it not?

It certainly does.

And the images of the true opinions are true, and those of the false are false?

Assuredly.

Then if we are right about that, let us consider a further question.

What is it?

Whether this is an inevitable experience in relation to the present and the past, but not in relation to the future.

It is in the same relation to all kinds of time.

Was it not said a while ago that the pleasures and pains which belong to the soul alone might come before the pleasures and pains of the body, so that we have the pleasure and pain of anticipation, which relate to the future?

Very true.

Do the writings and pictures, then, which we imagined a little while ago to exist within us, relate to the past and present, but not to the future?

To the future especially.

Do you say “to the future especially” because they are all hopes relating to the future and we are always filled with hopes all our lives?

Precisely.

Well, here is a further question for you to answer.

What is it?

A just, pious, and good man is surely a friend of the gods, is he not?

Certainly.

And an unjust and thoroughly bad man is the reverse?

Of course.

But, as we were just now saying, every man is full of many hopes?

Yes, to be sure.

And there are in all of us written words which we call hopes?

Yes.

And also the images painted there; and often a man sees an abundance of gold coming into his possession, and in its train many pleasures; and he even sees a picture of himself enjoying himself immensely.

Yes, certainly.

Shall we or shall we not say that of these pictures those are for the most part true which are presented to the good, because they are friends of the gods, whereas those presented to the bad are for the most part false?

Surely we must say that.

Then the bad also, no less than the good, have pleasures painted in their souls, but they are false pleasures.

Yes, surely.

Then the bad rejoice for the most part in the false, and the good in true pleasures.

That is inevitably true.

According to our present view, then, there are false pleasures in the souls of men, imitations or caricatures of the true pleasures; and pains likewise.

There are.

We saw, you remember, that he who had an opinion at all always really had an opinion, but it was sometimes not based upon realities, whether present, past, or future.

Certainly.

And this it was, I believe, which created false opinion and the holding of false opinions, was it not?

Yes.

Very well, must we not also grant that pleasure and pain stand in the same relation to realities?

What do you mean?

I mean that he who feels pleasure at all in any way or manner always really feels pleasure, but it is sometimes not based upon realities, whether present or past, and often, perhaps most frequently, upon things which will never even be realities in the future.

This also, Socrates, must inevitably be the case.

And the same may be said of fear and anger and all that sort of thing—that they are all sometimes false?

Certainly.

Well, can we say that opinions become bad or good except as they become false?

No.

And we understand, I believe, that pleasures also are not bad except by being false.

No; you have said quite the reverse of the truth, Socrates; for no one would be at all likely to call pains and pleasures bad because they are false, but because they are involved in another great and manifold evil.

Then of the evil pleasures which are such because of evil we will speak a little later, if we still care to do so; but of the false pleasures we must prove in another way that they exist and come into existence in us often and in great numbers; for this may help us to reach our decisions.

Yes, of course; that is, if such pleasures exist.

But they do exist, Protarchus, in my opinion; however, until we have established the truth of this opinion, it cannot be unquestioned.

Good.

Then let us, like athletes, approach and grapple with this new argument.

Let us do so.

We said, you may remember, a little while ago, that when desires, as they are called, exist in us, the soul is apart from the body and separate from it in feelings.

I remember; that was said.

And was not the soul that which desired the opposites of the conditions of the body and the body that which caused pleasure or pain because of feeling?

Yes, that was the case.

Then draw the conclusion as to what takes place in these circumstances.

Go on.

What takes place is this: in these circumstances pleasures and pains exist at the same time and the sensations of opposite pleasures and pains are present side by side simultaneously, as was made clear just now.

Yes, that is clear.

And have we not also said and agreed and settled something further?

What?

That both pleasure and pain admit of the more and less and are of the class of the infinite.

Yes, we have said that, certainly.

Then what means is there of judging rightly of this?

How and in what way do you mean?

I mean to ask whether the purpose of our judgement of these matters in such circumstances is to recognize in each instance which of these elements is greater or smaller or more intense, comparing pain with pleasure, pain with pain, and pleasure with pleasure.

Certainly there are such differences, and that is the purpose of our judgement.

Well then, in the case of sight, seeing things from too near at hand or from too great a distance obscures their real sizes and causes us to have false opinions; and does not this same thing happen in the case of pains and pleasures?

Yes, Socrates, even much more than in the case of sight.

Then our present conclusion is the opposite of what we said a little while ago.

To what do you refer?

A while ago these opinions, being false or true, imbued the pains and pleasures with their own condition of truth or falsehood.

Very true.

But now, because they are seen at various and changing distances and are compared with one another, the pleasures themselves appear greater and more intense by comparison with the pains, and the pains in turn, through comparison with the pleasures, vary inversely as they.

That is inevitable for the reasons you have given.

They both, then, appear greater and less than the reality. Now if you abstract from both of them this apparent, but unreal, excess or inferiority, you cannot say that its appearance is true, nor again can you have the face to affirm that the part of pleasure or pain which corresponds to this is true or real.

No, I cannot.

Next, then, we will see whether we may not in another direction come upon pleasures and pains still more false than these appearing and existing in living beings.

What pleasures and what method do you mean?

It has been said many times that pains and woes and aches and everything that is called by names of that sort are caused when nature in any instance is corrupted through combinations and dissolutions, fillings and emptyings, increases and diminutions.

Yes, that has been said many times.

And we agreed that when things are restored to their natural condition, that restoration is pleasure.

Right.

But when neither of these changes takes place in the body, what then?

When could that be the case, Socrates?

That question of yours is not to the point, Protarchus.

Why not?

Because you do not prevent my asking my own question again.

What question?

Why, Protarchus, I may say, granting that such a condition does not arise, what would be the necessary result if it did?

You mean if the body is not changed in either direction?

Yes.

It is clear, Socrates, that in that case there would never be either pleasure or pain.

Excellent. But you believe, I fancy, that some such change must always be taking place in us, as the philosophersHeracleitus and his followers. say; for all things are always flowing and shifting.

Yes, that is what they say, and I think their theory is important.

Of course it is, in view of their own importance. But I should like to avoid this argument which is rushing at us. I am going to run away; come along and escape with me.

What is your way of escape?

“We grant you all this” let us say to them. But answer me this, Protarchus, are we and all other living beings always conscious of everything that happens to us of our growth and all that sort of thing—or is the truth quite the reverse of that?

Quite the reverse, surely; for we are almost entirely unconscious of everything of that sort.

Then we were not right in saying just now that the fluctuations and changes cause pains and pleasures.

No, certainly not.

A better and more unassailable statement would be this.

What?

That the great changes cause pains and pleasures in us, but the moderate and small ones cause no pains or pleasures at all.

That is more correct than the other statement, Socrates.

But if that is the case, the life of which we spoke just now would come back again.

What life?

The life which we said was painless and without joys.

Very true.

Let us, therefore, assume three lives, one pleasant, one painful, and one neither of the two; or do you disagree?

No, I agree to this, that there are the three lives.

Then freedom from pain would not be identical with pleasure?

Certainly not.

When you hear anyone say that the pleasantest of all things is to live all oneÕs life without pain, what do you understand him to mean?

I think he means that freedom from pain is pleasure.

Now let us assume that we have three things; no matter what they are, but let us use fine names and call one gold, another silver, and the third neither of the two.

Agreed.

Now can that which is neither become either gold or silver?

Certainly not.

Neither can that middle life of which we spoke ever be rightly considered in opinion or called in speech pleasant or painful, at any rate by those who reason correctly.

No, certainly not.

But surely, my friend, we are aware of persons who call it and consider it so.

Certainly.

Do they, then, think they feel pleasure whenever they are not in pain?

That is what they say.

Then they do think they feel pleasure at such times; for otherwise they would not say so.

Most likely.

Certainly, then, they have a false opinion about pleasure, if there is an essential difference between feeling pleasure and not feeling pain.

And we certainly found that difference.

Then shall we adopt the view that there are, as we said just now, three states, or that there are only two—pain, which is an evil to mankind, and freedom from pain, which is of itself a good and is called pleasure?

Why do we ask ourselves that question now, Socrates? I do not understand.

No, Protarchus, for you certainly do not understand about the enemies of our friend Philebus.

Whom do you mean?

Certain men who are said to be master thinkers about nature, and who deny the existence of pleasures altogether.

Is it possible?

They say that what Philebus and his school call pleasures are all merely refuges from pain.

Do you recommend that we adopt their view, Socrates?

No, but that we make use of them as seers who divine the truth, not by acquired skill, but by some innate and not ignoble repugnance which makes them hate the power of pleasure and think it so utterly unsound that its very attractiveness is mere trickery, not pleasure. You may make use of them in this way, considering also their other expressions of dislike; and after that you shall learn of the pleasures which seem to me to be true, in order that we may consider the power of pleasure from both points of view and form our judgement by comparing them.

You are right.

Let us, then, consider these men as allies and follow them in the track of their dislike. I fancy their method would be to begin somewhere further back and ask whether, if we wished to discover the nature of any class—take the hard, for instance—we should be more likely to learn it by looking at the hardest things or at the least hard. Now you, Protarchus, must reply to them as you have been replying to me.

By all means, and I say to them that we should look at the greatest things.

Then if we wished to discover what the nature of pleasure is, we should look, not at the smallest pleasures, but at those which are considered most extreme and intense.

Every one would agree to that now.

And the commonest and greatest pleasures are, as we have often said, those connected with the body, are they not?

Certainly.

Are they greater, then, and do they become greater in those who are ill or in those who are in health? Let us take care not to answer hastily and fall into error. Perhaps we might say they are greater in those who are in health.

That is reasonable.

Yes, but are not those pleasures the greatest which gratify the greatest desires?

That is true.

But do not people who are in a fever, or in similar diseases, feel more intensely thirst and cold and other bodily sufferings which they usually have; and do they not feel greater want, followed by greater pleasure when their want is satisfied? Is this true, or not?

Now that you have said it, it certainly appears to be true.

Then should we appear to be right in saying that if we wished to discover the greatest pleasures we should have to look, not at health, but at disease? Now do not imagine that I mean to ask you whether those who are very ill have more pleasures than those who are well, but assume that I am asking about the greatness of pleasure, and where the greatest intensity of such feeling normally occurs. For we say that it is our task to discover the nature of pleasure and what those who deny its existence altogether say that it is.This paradox means “what those say it is who deny that it is really pleasure.”

I think I understand you.

Presently, Protarchus, you will show that more clearly, for I want you to answer a question. Do you see greater pleasures—I do not mean greater in number, but greater in intensity and degree—in riotous living or in a life of self-restraint? Be careful about your reply.

I understand you, and I see that there is a great difference. For the self-restrained are always held in check by the advice of the proverbial expression “nothing too much,” which guides their actions; but intense pleasure holds sway over the foolish and dissolute even to the point of madness and makes them notorious.

Good; and if that is true, it is clear that the greatest pleasures and the greatest pains originate in some depravity of soul and body, not in virtue.

Certainly.

Then we must select some of these pleasures and see what there is about them which made us say that they are the greatest.

Yes, we must.

Now see what there is about the pleasures which are related to certain diseases.

What diseases?

Repulsive diseases which the philosophers of dislike whom we mentioned utterly abominate.

What are the pleasures?

For instance, the relief of the itch and the like by scratching, no other treatment being required. For in HeavenÕs name what shall we say the feeling is which we have in this case? Is it pleasure or pain?

I think, Socrates, it is a mixed evil.

I did not introduce this question on PhilebusÕ account; but unless we consider these pleasures and those that follow in their train, Protarchus, we can probably never settle the point at issue.

Then we must attack this family of pleasures.

You mean those which are mixed?

Certainly.

Some mixtures are concerned with the body and are in the body only, and some belong only to the soul and are in the soul; and we shall also find some mingled pains and pleasures belonging both to the soul and to the body, and these are sometimes called pleasures, sometimes pains.

How so?

Whenever, in the process of restoration or destruction, anyone has two opposite feelings, as we sometimes are cold, but are growing warm, or are hot, but are growing cold, the desire of having the one and being free from the other, the mixture of bitter and sweet, as they say, joined with the difficulty in getting rid of the bitter, produces impatience and, later, wild excitement.

What you say is perfectly true.

And such mixtures sometimes consist of equal pains and pleasures and sometimes contain more of one or the other, do they not?

Of course.

In the case of the mixtures in which the pains are more than the pleasures—say the itch, which we mentioned just now, or tickling—when the burning inflammation is within and is not reached by the rubbing and scratching, which separate only such mixtures as are on the surface, sometimes by bringing the affected parts to the fire or to something cold we change from wretchedness to inexpressible pleasures, and sometimes the opposition between the internal and the external produces a mixture of pains and pleasures, whichever happens to preponderate; this is the result of the forcible separation of combined elements, or the combination of those that were separate, and the concomitant juxtaposition of pains and pleasures.

Very true.

And when the pleasure is the predominant element in the mixture, the slight tincture of pain tickles a man and makes him mildly impatient, or again an excessive proportion of pleasure excites him and sometimes even makes him leap for joy; it produces in him all sorts of colors, attitudes, and paintings, and even causes great amazement and foolish shouting, does it not?

Certainly.

And it makes him say of himself, and others say of him, that he is pleased to death with these delights, and the more unrestrained and foolish he is, the more he always gives himself up to the pursuit of these pleasures; he calls them the greatest of all things and counts that man the happiest who lives most entirely in the enjoyment of them.

Socrates, you have described admirably what happens in the case of most people.

That may be, Protarchus, so far as concerns purely bodily pleasures in which internal and external sensations unite; but concerning the pleasures in which the soul and the body contribute opposite elements, each adding pain or pleasure to the otherÕs pleasure or pain, so that both unite in a single mixture—concerning these I said before that when a man is empty he desires to be filled, and rejoices in his expectation, but is pained by his emptiness, and now I add, what I did not say at that time, that in all these cases, which are innumerable, of opposition between soul and body, there is one single mixture of pain and pleasure.

I believe you are quite right.

One further mixture of pain and pleasure is left.

What is it?

That mixture of its own feelings which we said the soul often experiences.

And what do we call this

Do you not regard anger, fear, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like as pains of the soul and the soul only?

I do.

And shall we not find them full of ineffable pleasures? Or must I remind you of the anger?Which stirs a man, though very wise, to wrath,And sweeter is than honey from the comb,unknown and of the pleasures mixed with pains, which we find in mournings and longings?

No, you need not remind me; those things occur just as you suggest.

And you remember, too, how people enjoy weeping at tragedies?

Yes, certainly.

And are you aware of the condition of the soul at comedies, how there also we have a mixture of pain and pleasure?

I do not quite understand.

Indeed it is by no means easy, Protarchus, to understand such a condition under those circumstances.

No at least I do not find it so.

Well, then, let us take this under consideration, all the more because of its obscurity; then we can more readily understand the mixture of pain and pleasure in other cases.

Please go on.

Would you say that envy, which was mentioned just now, was a pain of the soul, or not?

I say it is.

But certainly we see the envious man rejoicing in the misfortunes of his neighbors.

Yes, very much so.

Surely ignorance is an evil, as is also what we call stupidity.

Surely.

Next, then, consider the nature of the ridiculous.

Please proceed.

The ridiculous is in its main aspect a kind of vice which gives its name to a condition; and it is that part of vice in general which involves the opposite of the condition mentioned in the inscription at Delphi.

You mean “Know thyself,” Socrates?

Yes; and the opposite of that, in the language of the inscription, would evidently be not to know oneself at all.

Of course.

Protarchus, try to divide this into three.

How do you mean? I am afraid I can never do it.

Then you say that I must now make the division?

Yes, I say so, and I beg you to do so, besides.

Must not all those who do not know themselves be affected by their condition in one of three ways?

How is that?

First in regard to wealth; such a man thinks he is richer than he is.

Certainly a good many are affected in that way.

And there are still more who think they are taller and handsomer than they are and that they possess better physical qualities in general than is the case.

Certainly.

But by far the greatest number, I fancy, err in the third way, about the qualities of, the soul, thinking that they excel in virtue when they do not.

Yes, most decidedly.

And of all the virtues, is not wisdom the one to which people in general lay claim, thereby filling themselves with strife and false conceit of wisdom?

Yes, to be sure.

And we should surely be right in calling all that an evil condition.

Very much so.

Then this must further be divided into two parts, if we are to gain insight into childish envy with its absurd mixture of pleasure and pain. “How shall we divide it,” do you say? All who have this false and foolish conceit of themselves fall, like the rest of mankind, into two classes: some necessarily have strength and power, others, as I believe, the reverse.

Yes, necessarily.

Make the division, then, on that principle; those of them who have this false conceit and are weak and unable to revenge themselves when they are laughed at you may truly call ridiculous, but those who are strong and able to revenge themselves you will define most correctly to yourself by calling them powerful, terrible, and hateful, for ignorance in the powerful is hateful and infamous—since whether real or feigned it injures their neighbors—but ignorance in the weak appears to us as naturally ridiculous.

Quite right. But the mixture of pleasure and pain in all this is not yet clear to me.

First, then, take up the nature of envy.

Go on.

Is envy a kind of unrighteous pain and also a pleasure?

Undoubtedly.

But it is neither wrong nor envious to rejoice in the misfortunes of our enemies, is it?

No, of course not.

But when people sometimes see the misfortunes of their friends and rejoice instead of grieving, is not that wrong?

Of course it is.

And we said that ignorance was an evil to every one, did we not?

True.

Then the false conceits of our friends concerning their wisdom, their beauty, and their other qualities which we mentioned just now, saying that they belong to three classes, are ridiculous when they are weak, but hateful when they are powerful. Shall we, or shall we not, affirm that, as I said just now, this state of mind when possessed in its harmless form by any of our friends, is ridiculous in the eyes of others?

Certainly it is ridiculous.

And do we not agree that ignorance is in itself a misfortune?

Yes, a great one.

And do we feel pleasure or pain when we laugh at it?

Pleasure, evidently.

Did we not say that pleasure in the misfortunes of friends was caused by envy?

There can be no other cause.

Then our argument declares that when we laugh at the ridiculous qualities of our friends, we mix pleasure with pain, since we mix it with envy; for we have agreed all along that envy is a pain of the soul, and that laughter is a pleasure, yet these two are present at the same time on such occasions.

True.

So now our argument shows that in mournings and tragedies and comedies, not merely on the stage, but in all the tragedy and comedy of life, and in countless other ways, pain is mixed with pleasure.

It is impossible not to agree with that, Socrates, even though one be most eager to maintain the opposite opinion.

Again we mentioned anger, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like, as conditions in which we should find a mixture of the two elements we have now often named, did we not?

Yes.

And we understand that all the details I have been describing just now are concerned only with sorrow and envy and anger?

Of course we understand that.

Then there are still many others of those conditions left for us to discuss.

Yes, very many.

Now why do you particularly suppose I pointed out to you the mixture of pain and pleasure in comedy? Was it not for the sake of convincing you, because it is easy to show the mixture in love and fear and the rest, and because I thought that when you had made this example your own, you would relieve me from the necessity of discussing those other conditions in detail, and would simply accept the fact that in the affections of the body apart from the soul, of the soul apart from the body, and of the two in common, there are plentiful mixtures of pain and pleasure? So tell me; will you let me off, or will you keep on till midnight? But I think I need say only a few words to induce you to let me off. I will agree to give you an account of all these matters tomorrow, but now I wish to steer my bark towards the remaining points that are needful for the judgement which Philebus demands.

Good, Socrates; just finish what remains in any way you please.

Then after the mixed pleasures we should naturally and almost of necessity proceed in turn to the unmixed.

Very good.

So I will turn to them and try to explain them; for I do not in the least agree with those who say that all pleasures are merely surcease from pain, but, as I said, I use them as witnesses to prove that some pleasures are apparent, but not in any way real, and that there are others which appear to be both great and numerous, but are really mixed up with pains and with cessations of the greatest pains and distresses of body and soul.

But what pleasures, Socrates, may rightly be considered true?

Those arising from what are called beautiful colors, or from forms, most of those that arise from odors and sounds, in short all those the want of which is unfelt and painless, whereas the satisfaction furnished by them is felt by the senses, pleasant, and unmixed with pain.

Once more, Socrates, what do you mean by this?

My meaning is certainly not clear at the first glance, and I must try to make it so. For when I say beauty of form, I am trying to express, not what most people would understand by the words, such as the beauty of animals or of paintings, but I mean, says the argument, the straight line and the circle and the plane and solid figures formed from these by turning-lathes and rulers and patterns of angles; perhaps you understand. For I assert that the beauty of these is not relative, like that of other things, but they are always absolutely beautiful by nature and have peculiar pleasures in no way subject to comparison with the pleasures of scratching; and there are colors which possess beauty and pleasures of this character. Do you understand?

I am trying to do so, Socrates; and I hope you also will try to make your meaning still clearer.

I mean that those sounds which are smooth and clear and send forth a single pure note are beautiful, not relatively, but absolutely, and that there are pleasures which pertain to these by nature and result from them.

Yes, that also is true.

The pleasures of smell are a less divine class; but they have no necessary pains mixed with them, and wherever and in whatever we find this freedom from pain, I regard it always as a mark of similarity to those other pleasures. These, then, are two classes of the pleasures of which I am speaking. Do you understand me?

I understand.

And further let us add to these the pleasures of knowledge, if they appear to us not to have hunger for knowledge or pangs of such hunger as their source.

I agree to that.

Well, if men are full of knowledge and then lose it through forgetfulness, do you see any pains in the losses?

Not by their inherent nature, but sometimes there is pain in reflecting on the event, when a man who has lost knowledge is pained by the lack of it.

True, my dear fellow, but just at present we are recounting natural feelings only, not reflection.

Then you are right in saying that we feel no pain in the loss of knowledge.

Then we may say that these pleasures of knowledge are unmixed with pain and are felt not by the many but only by very few.

Yes, certainly.

And now that we have fairly well separated the pure pleasures and those which may be pretty correctly called impure, let us add the further statement that the intense pleasures are without measure and those of the opposite sort have measure; those which admit of greatness and intensity and are often or seldom great or intense we shall assign to the class of the infinite, which circulates more or less freely through the body and soul alike, and the others we shall assign to the class of the limited.

Quite right, Socrates.

There is still another question about them to be considered.

What is it?

What kind of thing is most closely related to truth? The pure and unadulterated, or the violent, the widespread, the great, and the sufficient?

What is your object, Socrates, in asking that question?

My object, Protarchus, is to leave no gap in my test of pleasure and knowledge, if some part of each of them is pure and some part impure, in order that each of them may offer itself for judgement in a condition of purity, and thus make the judgement easier for you and me and all our audience.

Quite right.

Very well, let us adopt that point of view towards all the classes which we call pure. First let us select one of them and examine it.

Which shall we select?

Let us first, if agreeable to you, consider whiteness.

By all means.

How can we have purity in whiteness, and what purity? Is it the greatest and most widespread, or the most unmixed, that in which there is no trace of any other color?

Clearly it is the most unadulterated.

Right. Shall we not, then, Protarchus, declare that this, and not the most numerous or the greatest, is both the truest and the most beautiful of all whitenesses?

Quite right.

Then we shall be perfectly right in saying that a little pure white is whiter and more beautiful and truer than a great deal of mixed white.

Perfectly right.

Well then, we shall have no need of many such examples in our discussion of pleasure; we see well enough from this one that any pleasure, however small or infrequent, if uncontaminated with pain, is pleasanter and more beautiful than a great or often repeated pleasure without purity.

Most certainly; and the example is sufficient.

Here is another point. Have we not often heard it said of pleasure that it is always a process or generation and that there is no state or existence of pleasure? There are some clever people who try to prove this theory to us, and we ought to be grateful to them.

Well, what then?

I will explain this whole matter, Protarchus, by asking questions.

Go on; ask your questions.

There are two parts of existence, the one self-existent, the other always desiring something else.

What do you mean? What are these two?

The one is by nature more imposing, the other inferior.

Speak still more plainly.

We have seen beloved boys who are fair and good, and brave lovers of them.

Yes, no doubt of it.

Try to find another pair like these in all the relations we are speaking of.

Must I say it a third time? Please tell your meaning more plainly, Socrates.

It is no riddle, Protarchus; the talk is merely jesting with us and means that one part of existences always exists for the sake of something, and the other part is that for the sake of which the former is always coming into being.

I can hardly understand after all your repetition.

Perhaps, my boy, you will understand better as the discussion proceeds.

I hope so.

Let us take another pair.

What are they?

One is the generation of all things (the process of coming into being), the other is existence or being.

I accept your two, generation and being.

Quite right. Now which of these shall we say is for the sake of the other, generation for the sake of being, or being for the sake of generation?

You are now asking whether that which is called being is what it is for the sake of generation?

Yes, plainly.

For HeavenÕs sake, is this the kind of question you keep asking me, “Tell me, Protarchus, whether you think shipbuilding is for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of shipbuilding,” and all that sort of thing?

Yes; that is just what I mean, Protarchus.

Then why did you not answer it yourself, Socrates?

There is no reason why I should not; but I want you to take part in the discussion.

Certainly.

I say that drugs and all sorts of instruments and materials are always employed for the sake of production or generation, but that every instance of generation is for the sake of some being or other, and generation in general is for the sake of being in general.

That is very clear.

Then pleasure, if it is a form of generation, would be generated for the sake of some form of being.

Of course.

Now surely that for the sake of which anything is generated is in the class of the good, and that which is generated for the sake of something else, my friend, must be placed in another class.

Most undeniably.

Then if pleasure is a form of generation, we shall be right in placing it in a class other than that of the good, shall we not?

Quite right.

Then, as I said when we began to discuss this point, we ought to be grateful to him who pointed out that there is only a generation, but no existence, of pleasure; for he is clearly making a laughing-stock of those who assert that pleasure is a good.

Yes, most emphatically.

And he will also surely make a laughing-stock of all those who find their highest end in forms of generation.

How is that, and to whom do you refer?

To those who, when cured of hunger or thirst or any of the troubles which are cured by generation are pleased because of the generation, as if it were pleasure, and say that they would not wish to live without thirst and hunger and the like, if they could not experience the feelings which follow after them.

That seems to be their view.

We should all agree that the opposite of generation is destruction, should we not?

Inevitably.

And he who chooses as they do would be choosing destruction and generation, not that third life in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, but only the purest possible thought.

It is a great absurdity, as it appears, Socrates, to tell us that pleasure is a good.

Yes, a great absurdity, and let us go still further.

How?

Is it not absurd to say that there is nothing good in the body or many other things, but only in the soul, and that in the soul the only good is pleasure, and that courage and self-restraint and understanding and all the other good things of the soul are nothing of the sort; and beyond all this to be obliged to say that he who is not feeling pleasure, and is feeling pain, is bad when he feels pain, though he be the best of men, and that he who feels pleasure is, when he feels pleasure, the more excellent in virtue the greater the pleasure he feels?

All that, Socrates, is the height of absurdity.

Now let us not undertake to subject pleasure to every possible test and then be found to give mind and knowledge very gentle treatment. Let us rather strike them boldly everywhere to see if their metal rings unsound at any point; so we shall find out what is by nature purest in them, and then we can make use of the truest elements of these and of pleasure to form our judgement of both.

Right.

Well, then, one part of knowledge is productive, the other has to do with education and support. Is that true?

It is.

Let us first consider whether in the manual arts one part is more allied to knowledge, and the other less, and the one should be regarded as purest, the other as less pure.

Yes, we ought to consider that.

And should the ruling elements of each of them be separated and distinguished from the rest?

What are they, and how can they be separated?

For example, if arithmetic and the sciences of measurement and weighing were taken away from all arts, what was left of any of them would be, so to speak, pretty worthless.

Yes, pretty worthless.

All that would be left for us would be to conjecture and to drill the perceptions by practice and experience, with the additional use of the powers of guessing, which are commonly called arts and acquire their efficacy by practice and toil.

That is undeniable.

Take music first; it is full of this; it attains harmony by guesswork based on practice, not by measurement; and flute music throughout tries to find the pitch of each note as it is produced by guess, so that the amount of uncertainty mixed up in it is great, and the amount of certainty small.

Very true.

And we shall find that medicine and agriculture and piloting and generalship are all in the same case.

Certainly.

But the art of building, I believe, employs the greatest number of measures and instruments which give it great accuracy and make it more scientific than most arts.

In what way?

In shipbuilding and house-building, and many other branches of wood-working. For the artisan uses a rule, I imagine, a lathe, compasses, a chalk-line, and an ingenious instrument called a vice.

Certainly, Socrates; you are right.

Let us, then, divide the arts, as they are called, into two kinds, those which resemble music, and have less accuracy in their works, and those which, like building, are more exact.

Agreed.

And of these the most exact are the arts which I just now mentioned first.

I think you mean arithmetic and the other arts you mentioned with it just now.

Certainly. But, Protarchus, ought not these to be divided into two kinds? What do you say?

What kinds?

Are there not two kinds of arithmetic, that of the people and that of philosophers?

How can one kind of arithmetic be distinguished from the other?

The distinction is no small one, Protarchus. For some arithmeticians reckon unequal units, for instance, two armies and two oxen and two very small or incomparably large units; whereas others refuse to agree with them unless each of countless units is declared to differ not at all from each and every other unit.

You are certainly quite right in saying that there is a great difference between the devotees of arithmetic, so it is reasonable to assume that it is of two kinds.

And how about the arts of reckoning and measuring as they are used in building and in trade when compared with philosophical geometry and elaborate computations—shall we speak of each of these as one or as two?

On the analogy of the previous example, I should say that each of them was two.

Right. But do you understand why I introduced this subject?

Perhaps; but I wish you would give the answer to your question.

This discussion of ours is now, I think, no less than when we began it, seeking a counterpart of pleasure, and therefore it has introduced the present subject and is considering whether there is one kind of knowledge purer than another, as one pleasure is purer than another.

That is very clear; it was evidently introduced with that object.

Well, had not the discussion already found in what preceded that the various arts had various purposes and various degrees of exactness?

Certainly.

And after having given an art a single name in what has preceded, thereby making us think that it was a single art, does not the discussion now assume that the same art is two and ask whether the art of the philosophers or that of the non-philosophers possesses the higher degree of clearness and purity?

Yes, I think that is just the question it asks.

Then what reply shall we make, Protarchus?

Socrates, we have found a marvelously great difference in the clearness of different kinds of knowledge.

That will make the reply easier, will it not?

Yes, to be sure; and let our reply be this, that the arithmetical and metrical arts far surpass the others and that of these the arts which are stirred by the impulse of the true philosophers are immeasurably superior in accuracy and truth about measures and numbers.

We accept that as our judgement, and relying upon you we make this confident reply to those who are clever in straining arguments—

What reply?

That there are two arts of arithmetic and two of measuring, and many other arts which, like these, are twofold in this way, but possess a single name in common.

Let us give this answer, Socrates, to those who you say are clever; I hope we shall have luck with it.

These, then, we say, are the most exact arts or sciences?

Certainly.

But the art of dialectic would spurn us, Protarchus, if we should judge that any other art is preferable to her.

But what is the art to which this name belongs?

Clearly anybody can recognize the art I mean; for I am confident that all men who have any intellect whatsoever believe that the knowledge which has to do with being, reality, and eternal immutability is the truest kind of knowledge. What do you think, Protarchus?

I have often heard Gorgias constantly maintain that the art of persuasion surpasses all others for this, he said, makes all things subject to itself, not by force, but by their free will, and is by far the best of all arts; so now I hardly like to oppose either him or you.

It seems to me that you wanted to speak and threw down your arms out of modesty.

Very well; have it as you like.

Is it my fault that you have misunderstood?

Misunderstood what?

My question, dear Protarchus, was not as yet what art or science surpasses all others by being the greatest and best and most useful to us: what I am trying to find out at present is which art, however little and of little use, has the greatest regard for clearness, exactness, and truth. See; you will not make Gorgias angry if you grant that his art is superior for the practical needs of men, but say that the study of which I spoke is superior in the matter of the most perfect truth, just as I said in speaking about the white that if it was small and pure it was superior to that which was great but impure. Now, therefore, with careful thought and due consideration, paying attention neither to the usefulness nor to the reputation of any arts or sciences, but to that faculty of our souls, if such there be, which by its nature loves the truth and does all things for the sake of the truth, let us examine this faculty and say whether it is most likely to possess mind and intelligence in the greatest purity, or we must look for some other faculty which has more valid claims.

I am considering, and I think it is difficult to concede that any other science or art cleaves more closely to truth than this.

In saying that, did you bear in mind that the arts in general, and the men who devote themselves to them, make use of opinion and persistently investigate things which have to do with opinion? And even if they think they are studying nature, they are spending their lives in the study of the things of this world, the manner of their production, their action, and the forces to which they are subjected. Is not that true?

Yes, it is.

Such thinkers, then, toil to discover, not eternal verities, but transient productions of the present, the future, or the past?

Perfectly true.

And can we say that any of these things becomes certain, if tested by the touchstone of strictest truth, since none of them ever was, will be, or is in the same state?

Of course not.

How can we gain anything fixed whatsoever about things which have no fixedness whatsoever?

In no way, as it seems to me.

Then no mind or science which is occupied with them possesses the most perfect truth.

No, it naturally does not.

Then we must dismiss the thought of you and me and Gorgias and Philebus, and make this solemn declaration on the part of our argument.

What is the solemn declaration?

That fixed and pure and true and what we call unalloyed knowledge has to do with the things which are eternally the same without change or mixture, or with that which is most akin to them; and all other things are to be regarded as secondary and inferior.

Very true.

And of the names applied to such matters, it would be fairest to give the finest names to the finest things, would it not?

That is reasonable.

Are not mind, then, and wisdom the names which we should honor most?

Yes.

Then these names are applied most accurately and correctly to cases of contemplation of true being.

Certainly.

And these are precisely the names which I brought forward in the first place as parties to our suit.

Yes, of course they are, Socrates.

Very well. As to the mixture of wisdom and pleasure, if anyone were to say that we are like artisans, with the materials before us from which to create our work, the simile would be a good one.

Certainly.

And is it, then, our next task to try to make the mixture?

Surely.

Would it not be better first to repeat certain things and recall them to our minds?

What things?

Those which we mentioned before. I think the proverb “we ought to repeat twice and even three times that which is good” is an excellent one.

Surely.

Well then, in GodÕs name; I think this is the gist of our discussion.

What is it?

Philebus says that pleasure is the true goal of every living being and that all ought to aim at it, and that therefore this is also the good for all, and the two designations “good” and “pleasant” are properly and essentially one; Socrates, however, says that they are not one, but two in fact as in name, that the good and the pleasant differ from one another in nature, and that wisdomÕs share in the good is greater than pleasureÕs. Is not and was not that what was said, Protarchus?

Yes, certainly.

And furthermore, is not and was not this a point of agreement among us?

What?

That the nature of the good differs from all else in this respect.

In what respect?

That whatever living being possesses the good always, altogether, and in all ways, has no further need of anything, but is perfectly sufficient. We agreed to that?

We did.

And then we tried in thought to separate each from the other and apply them to individual lives, pleasure unmixed with wisdom and likewise wisdom which had not the slightest alloy of pleasure?

Yes.

And did we think then that either of them would be sufficient for any one?

By no means.

And if we made any mistake at that time, let any one now take up the question again. Assuming that memory, wisdom, knowledge, and true opinion belong to the same class, let him ask whether anyone would wish to have or acquire anything whatsoever without these not to speak of pleasure, be it never so abundant or intense, if he could have no true opinion that he is pleased, no knowledge whatsoever of what he has felt, and not even the slightest memory of the feeling. And let him ask in the same way about wisdom, whether anyone would wish to have wisdom without any, even the slightest, pleasure rather than with some pleasures, or all pleasures without wisdom rather than with some wisdom.

That is impossible, Socrates; it is useless to ask the same question over and over again.

Then the perfect, that which is to be desired by all and is altogether good, is neither of these?

Certainly not.

We must, then, gain a clear conception of the good, or at least an outline of it, that we may, as we said, know to what the second place is to be assigned.

Quite right.

And have we not found a road which leads to the good?

What road?

If you were looking for a particular man and first found out correctly where he lived, you would have made great progress towards finding him whom you sought.

Yes, certainly.

And just now we received an indication, as we did in the beginning, that we must seek the good, not in the unmixed, but in the mixed life.

Certainly.

Surely there is greater hope that the object of our search will be clearly present in the well mixed life than in the life which is not well mixed?

Far greater.

Let us make the mixture, Protarchus, with a prayer to the gods, to Dionysus or Hephaestus, or whoever he be who presides over the mixing.

By all means.

We are like wine-pourers, and beside us are fountains—that of pleasure may be likened to a fount of honey, and the sober, wineless fount of wisdom to one of pure, health-giving water—of which we must do our best to mix as well as possible.

Certainly we must.

Before we make the mixture, tell me: should we be most likely to succeed by mixing all pleasure with all wisdom?

Perhaps.

But that is not safe; and I think I can offer a plan by which we can make our mixture with less risk.

What is it?

We found, I believe, that one pleasure was greater than another and one art more exact than another?

Certainly.

And knowledge was of two kinds, one turning its eyes towards transitory things, the other towards things which neither come into being nor pass away, but are the same and immutable for ever. Considering them with a view to truth, we judged that the latter was truer than the former.

That is quite right.

Then what if we first mix the truest sections of each and see whether, when mixed together, they are capable of giving us the most adorable life, or whether we still need something more and different?

I think that is what we should do.

Let us assume, then, a man who possesses wisdom about the nature of justice itself, and reason in accordance with his wisdom, and has the same kind of knowledge of all other things.

Agreed.

Now will this man have sufficient knowledge, if he is master of the theory of the divine circle and sphere, but is ignorant of our human sphere and human circles, even when he uses these and other kinds of rules or patterns in building houses?

We call that a ridiculous state of intellect in a man, Socrates, which is concerned only with divine knowledge.

What? Do you mean to say that the uncertain and impure art of the false rule and circle is to be put into our mixture?

Yes, that is inevitable, if any man is ever to find his own way home.

And must we add music, which we said a little while ago was full of guesswork and imitation and lacked purity?

Yes, I think we must, if our life is to be life at all.

Shall I, then, like a doorkeeper who is pushed and hustled by a mob, give up, open the door, and let all the kinds of knowledge stream in, the impure mingling with the pure?

I do not know, Socrates, what harm it can do a man to take in all the other kinds of knowledge if he has the first.

Shall I, then, let them all flow into what Homer very poetically calls “the mingling of the vales?”Hom. Il. 4.453.

Certainly.

They are let in; and now we must turn again to the spring of pleasure. For our original plan for making the mixture, by taking first the true parts, did not succeed; because of our love of knowledge, we let all kinds of knowledge in together before pleasure.

Very true.

So now it is time for us to consider about pleasures also, whether these, too, shall be all let loose together, or we shall let only the true ones loose at first.

It is much safer to let loose the true first.

We will let them loose, then. But what next? If there are any necessary pleasures, as there were kinds of knowledge, must we not mix them with the true?

Of course; the necessary pleasures must certainly be added.

And as we said it was harmless and useful to know all the arts throughout our life, if we now say the same of pleasures—that is, if it is advantageous and harmless for us to enjoy all pleasures throughout life—they must all form part of the mixture.

What shall we say about these pleasures, and what shall we do?

There is no use in asking us, Protarchus; we must ask the pleasures and the arts and sciences themselves about one another.

What shall we ask them?

“Dear ones—whether you should be called pleasures or by any other name—would you choose to dwell with all wisdom, or with none at all?” I think only one reply is possible.

What is it?

What we said before: “For any class to be alone, solitary, and unalloyed is neither altogether possible nor is it profitable; but of all classes, comparing them one with another, we think the best to live with is the knowledge of all other things and, so far as is possible, the perfect knowledge of our individual selves.”

“Your reply is excellent,” we shall tell them.

Right. And next we must turn to wisdom and mind, and question them. We shall ask them, “Do you want any further pleasures in the mixture?” And they might reply, “What pleasures?”

Quite likely.

Then we should go on to say: “In addition to those true pleasures, do you want the greatest and most intense pleasures also to dwell with you?” “How can we want them, Socrates,” they might perhaps say, “since they contain countless hindrances for us, inasmuch as they disturb with maddening pleasures the souls of men in which we dwell, thereby preventing us from being born at all, and utterly destroying for the most part, through the carelessness and forgetfulness which they engender, those of our children which are born? But the true and pure pleasures, of which you spoke, you must consider almost our own by nature, and also those which are united with health and self-restraint, and furthermore all those which are handmaids of virtue in general and follow everywhere in its train as if it were a god,—add these to the mixture; but as for the pleasures which follow after folly and all baseness, it would be very senseless for anyone who desires to discover the most beautiful and most restful mixture or compound, and to try to learn which of its elements is good in man and the universe, and what we should divine its nature to be, to mix these with mind.” Shall we not say that this reply which mind has now made for itself and memory and right opinion is wise and reasonable?

Certainly.

But another addition is surely necessary, without which nothing whatsoever can ever come into being.

What is it?

That in which there is no admixture of truth can never truly come into being or exist.

No, of course not.

No. But if anything is still wanting in our mixture, you and Philebus must speak of it. For to me it seems that our argument is now completed, as it were an incorporeal order which shall rule nobly a living body.

And you may say, Socrates, that I am of the same opinion.

And if we were to say that we are now in the vestibule of the good and of the dwelling of the good, should we not be speaking the truth after a fashion?

I certainly think so.

What element, then, of the mixture would appear to us to be the most precious and also the chief cause why such a state is beloved of all? When we have discovered this, we will then consider whether it is more closely attached and more akin to pleasure or to mind in the universe.

Right; for that is most serviceable to us in forming our judgement.

And it is quite easy to see the cause which makes any mixture whatsoever either of the highest value or of none at all.

What do you mean?

Why, everybody knows that.

Knows what?

That any compound, however made, which lacks measure and proportion, must necessarily destroy its components and first of all itself; for it is in truth no compound, but an uncompounded jumble, and is always a misfortune to those who possess it.

Perfectly true.

So now the power of the good has taken refuge in the nature of the beautiful; for measure and proportion are everywhere identified with beauty and virtue.

Certainly.

We said that truth also was mingled with them in the compound.

Certainly.

Then if we cannot catch the good with the aid of one idea, let us run it down with three—beauty, proportion, and truth, and let us say that these, considered as one, may more properly than all other components of the mixture be regarded as the cause, and that through the goodness of these the mixture itself has been made good.

Quite right.

So now, Protarchus, any one would be able to judge about pleasure and wisdom, and to decide which of them is more akin to the highest good and of greater value among men and gods.

That is clear; but still it is better to carry on the discussion to the end.

Let us, then, judge each of the three separately in its relation to pleasure and mind; for it is our duty to see to which of the two we shall assign each of them as more akin.

You refer to beauty, truth, and measure?

Yes. Take truth first, Protarchus; take it and look at the three—mind, truth, and pleasure; take plenty of time, and answer to yourself whether pleasure or mind is more akin to truth.

Why take time? For the difference, to my mind, is great. For pleasure is the greatest of impostors, and the story goes that in the pleasures of love, which are said to be the greatest, perjury is even pardoned by the gods, as if the pleasures were like children, utterly devoid of all sense. But mind is either identical with truth or of all things most like it and truest.

Next, then, consider measure in the same way, and see whether pleasure possesses more of it than wisdom, or wisdom than pleasure.

That also is an easy thing to consider. For I think nothing in the world could be found more immoderate than pleasure and its transports, and nothing more in harmony with measure than mind and knowledge.

However, go on and tell about the third. Has mind or pleasure the greater share in beauty?

But Socrates, no one, either asleep or awake, ever saw or knew wisdom or mind to be or become unseemly at any time or in any way whatsoever.

Right.

But pleasures, and the greatest pleasures at that, when we see any one enjoying them and observe the ridiculous or utterly disgraceful element which accompanies them, fill us with a sense of shame; we put them out of sight and hide them, so far as possible; we confine everything of that sort to the night time, as unfit for the sight of day.

Then you will proclaim everywhere, Protarchus, by messengers to the absent and by speech to those present, that pleasure is not the first of possessions, nor even the second, but first the eternal nature has chosen measure, moderation, fitness, and all which is to be considered similar to these.

That appears to result from what has now been said.

Second, then, comes proportion, beauty, perfection, sufficiency, and all that belongs to that class.

Yes, so it appears.

And if you count mind and wisdom as the third, you will, I prophesy, not wander far from the truth.

That may be.

And will you not put those properties fourth which we said belonged especially to the soul—sciences, arts, and true opinions they are called— and say that these come after the first three, and are fourth, since they are more akin than pleasure to the good?

Perhaps.

And fifth, those pleasures which we separated and classed as painless, which we called pure pleasures of the soul itself, those which accompany knowledge and, sometimes, perceptions?

May be.

“But with the sixth generation,” says Orpheus, “cease the rhythmic song.” It seems that our discussion, too, is likely to cease with the sixth decision. So after this nothing remains for us but to give our discussion a sort of head.

Yes, that should be done.

Come then, let us for the third time call the same argument to witness before Zeus the saviour, and proceed.

What argument?

Philebus declared that pleasure was entirely and in all respects the good.

Apparently, Socrates, when you said “the third time” just now, you meant that we must take up our argument again from the beginning.

Yes; but let us hear what follows. For I, perceiving the truths which I have now been detailing, and annoyed by the theory held not only by Philebus but by many thousands of others, said that mind was a far better and more excellent thing for human life than pleasure.

True.

But suspecting that there were many other things to be considered, I said that if anything should be found better than these two, I should support mind against pleasure in the struggle for the second place, and even the second place would be lost by pleasure.

Yes, that is what you said.

And next it was most sufficiently proved that each of these two was insufficient.

Very true.

In this argument, then, both mind and pleasure were set aside; neither of them is the absolute good, since they are devoid of self-sufficiency, adequacy, and perfection?

Quite right.

And on the appearance of a third competitor, better than either of these, mind is now found to be ten thousand times more akin than pleasure to the victor.

Certainly.

Then, according to the judgement which has now been given by our discussion, the power of pleasure would be fifth.

So it seems.

But not first, even if all the cattle and horses and other beasts in the world, in their pursuit of enjoyment, so assert. Trusting in them, as augurs trust in birds, the many judge that pleasures are the greatest blessings in life, and they imagine that the lusts of beasts are better witnesses than are the aspirations and thoughts inspired by the philosophic muse.

Socrates, we all now declare that what you have said is perfectly true.

Then you will let me go?

There is still a little left, Socrates. I am sure you will not give up before we do, and I will remind you of what remains.

I believe I have got the story you inquire of pretty well by heart. The day before yesterday I chanced to be going up to town from my house in Phalerum, when one of my acquaintance caught sight of me from behind, some way off, and called in a bantering tone “Hullo, Phalerian! I say, Apollodorus, wait a moment.” So I stopped and waited. Then, “Apollodorus,” he said, “do you know, I have just been looking for you, as I want to hear all about the banquet that brought together Agathon and Socrates and Alcibiades and the rest of that party, and what were the speeches they delivered upon love. For somebody else was relating to me the account he had from Phoenix,Nothing is known of this man. son of Philip, and he mentioned that you knew it too. But he could not tell it at all clearly so you must give me the whole story, for you are the most proper reporter of your dear friend's discourses. But first tell me this,” he went on; “were you at that party yourself, or not?” To which my answer was: “You have had anything but a clear account from your informant, if you suppose the party you are asking about to have been such a recent affair that I could be included.” “So I did suppose,” he said. “How so, GlauconPerhaps the father of Charmides (Plat. Charm. 154).?” said I. “You must know it is many a year that Agathon has been away from home and country, and not yet three years that I have been consorting with Socrates and making it my daily care to know whatever he says or does. Before that time, what with running about at random and thinking I did things, I was the wretchedest man alive; just as you are at present, thinking philosophy is none of your business.” “Instead of jeering at me,” he said, “tell me when it was that this party took place.” “When you and I were only children,” I told him; “on the occasion of Agathon's victory with his first tragedy: the day after that of the dedicatory feast which he and his players held for its celebration.” “Ah, quite a long while ago, it would seem,” said he; “but who gave you the account of it? Socrates himself?” “Goodness, no!” I answered. “It was the person who told Phoenix— Aristodemus of Cydathenaeum, a little man, who went always barefoot. He was of the company there, being one of the chief among Socrates' lovers at that time, I believe. But all the same, I have since questioned Socrates on some details of the story I had from his friend, and he acknowledged them to be in accordance with his account.” “Come then,” he said, “let me have it now; and in fact the road up to town is well suited for telling and hearing as we go along.”So on we went, discoursing the while of this affair; and hence, as I began by saying, I have it pretty well by heart. So, friends, if you too must hear the whole story, I had better tell it. For my own part, indeed, I commonly find that, setting aside the benefit I conceive they do me, I take an immense delight in philosophic discourses, whether I speak them myself or hear them from others: whereas in the case of other sorts of talk—especially that of your wealthy, money-bag friends—I am not only annoyed myself but sorry for dear intimates like you, who think you are doing a great deal when you really do nothing at all. From your point of view, I daresay, I seem a hapless creature, and I think your thought is true. I, however, do not think it of you: I know it for sure.

You are the same as ever, Apollodorus,—always defaming your self and every one else! Your view, I take it, is that all men alike are miserable, save Socrates, and that your own plight is the worst. How you may have come by your title of “crazy,”His friend means: “I expect you quite deserve your name of crazy fanatic (for your general absorption in philosophy), because your vehement censure of yourself and others suggests it to me”. I do not know: though, of course, you are always like that in your way of speech—raging against yourself and everybody except Socrates.

My dear sir, obviously it must be a mere crazy aberration in me, to hold this opinion of myself and of you all!

It is waste of time, Apollodorus, to wrangle about such matters now. Come, without more ado, comply with our request and relate how the speeches went.

Well then, they were somewhat as follows,—but stay, I must try and tell you all in order from the beginning, just as my friend told it to me.How Aristodemus fell in with Socrates and came to the Banquet He said that he met with Socrates fresh from the bath and wearing his best pair of slippers—quite rare events with him—and asked him whither he was bound in such fine trim.“To dinner at Agathon's,” he answered. “I evaded him and his celebrations yesterday, fearing the crowd; but I agreed to be present today. So I got myself up in this handsome style in order to be a match for my handsome host. Now tell me,” said he, “do you feel in the mood for going unasked to dinner?”“For anything,” he said he replied, “that you may bid me do.”“Come along then,” he said; “let us corrupt the proverb with a new version: What if they go of their own accord,The good men to our Goodman'sThe name Agathon resembles the Greek for “good men's” in the proverb, which seems to have been: au)to/matoi d' a)gaqoi\ a)gaqw=n e)pi\ dai=tas i)/asi (Athen. i. 8A; Bacchyl. fr. 33). The “corruption” consists in putting the dative *)aga/qwn（i） for A)GAQW=N; though perhaps the reference is to another form of the proverb which had DEILW=N (cravens') instead of A)GAQW=N. board?Though indeed HomerHom. Il. 17.587 *mene/laon u(petre/sas, o(\ to\ pa/ros ge malqako\s ai)xmhth/s, and Hom. Il. 2.408 au)to/matos de/ oi( h)=lqe boh\n a)gaqo\s *mene/laos. may be said to have not merely corrupted the adage, but debauched it: for after setting forth Agamemnon as a man eminently good at warfare, and Menelaus as only “a spearman spiritless,”Hom. Il. 17.587 he makes the latter come unbidden to the banquet of the former, who was offering sacrifice and holding a feast; so the worse man was the guest of the better.”To this my friend's answer, as he told me, was: “I am afraid mine, most likely, is a case that fits not your version, Socrates, but Homer's—a dolt coming unbidden to the banquet of a scholar. Be sure, then, to have your excuse quite ready when you bring me; for I shall not own to coming unasked, but only on your invitation.”“‘If two go along together,’” he remarked, “‘there's one before another’Cf. Hom. Il. 10.224 SU/N TE DU/' E)RXOME/NW, KAI/ TE PRO\ O(\ TOU= E)NO/HSEN O(/PPWS KE/RDOS E)/H|, “if two go along together, there's one to espy before another how a profit may be had.” in devising what we are to say. Well, off we go.”After some such conversation, he told me, they started off. Then Socrates, becoming absorbed in his own thoughts by the way, fell behind him as they went; and when my friend began to wait for him he bade him go on ahead. So he came to Agathon's house, and found the door open; where he found himself in a rather ridiculous position. For he was met immediately by a servant from within, who took him where the company was reclining, and he found them just about to dine. However, as soon as Agathon saw him “Ha, Aristodemus,” he cried, “right welcome to a place at table with us! If you came on some other errand, put it off to another time: only yesterday I went round to invite you, but failed to see you. But how is it you do not bring us Socrates?”At that I turned back for Socrates, he said, but saw no sign of him coming after me: so I told them how I myself had come along with Socrates, since he had asked me to dine with them.“Very good of you to come,” he said, “but where is the man?” “He was coming in just now behind me: I am wondering myself where he can be.”“Go at once,” said Agathon to the servant, “and see if you can fetch in Socrates. You, Aristodemus, take a place by Eryximachus.”So the attendant washed him and made him ready for reclining, when another of the servants came in with the news that our good Socrates had retreated into their neighbors' porch; there he was standing, and when bidden to come in, he refused.“How strange!” said Agathon, “you must go on bidding him, and by no means let him go.” But this Aristodemus forbade: “No,” said he, “let him alone; it is a habit he has. Occasionally he turns aside, anywhere at random, and there he stands. He will be here presently, I expect. So do not disturb him; let him be.”“Very well then,” said Agathon, “as you judge best. Come, boys,” he called to the servants, “serve the feast for the rest of us. You are to set on just whatever you please, now that you have no one to direct you (a method I have never tried before).This clause is probably an “aside” to his guests. Today you are to imagine that I and all the company here have come on your invitation so look after us, and earn our compliments.” Thereupon, he said, they all began dinner, but Socrates did not arrive; and though Agathon ever and anon gave orders that they should go and fetch him, my friend would not allow it. When he did come, it was after what, for him, was no great delay, as they were only about halfway through dinner. Then Agathon, who happened to be sitting alone in the lowest place, said: “Here, Socrates, come sit by me, so that by contact with you I may have some benefit from that piece of wisdom that occurred to you there in the porch. Clearly you have made the discovery and got hold of it for you would not have come away before.”Then Socrates sat down, and “How fine it would be, Agathon,” he said, “if wisdom were a sort of thing that could flow out of the one of us who is fuller into him who is emptier, by our mere contact with each other, as water will flow through wool from the fuller cup into the emptier. If such is indeed the case with wisdom, I set a great value on my sitting next to you: I look to be filled with excellent wisdom drawn in abundance out of you. My own is but meagre, as disputable as a dream; but yours is bright and expansive, as the other day we saw it shining forth from your youth, strong and splendid, in the eyes of more than thirty thousand Greeks.”“You rude mocker, Socrates!” said Agathon. “A little later on you and I shall go to law on this matter of our wisdom, and Dionysus shall be our judge. For the present, let the dinner be your first concern.” After this, it seems, when Socrates had taken his place and had dined with the rest, they made libation and sang a chant to the god and so forth, as custom bids, till they betook them to drinking. Then Pausanias opened a conversation after this manner: “Well, gentlemen, what mode of drinking will suit us best? For my part, to tell the truth, I am in very poor form as a result of yesterday's bout, and I claim a little relief; it is so, I believe, with most of you, for you were at yesterday's party: so consider what method of drinking would suit us best.”On this Aristophanes observed: “Now that, Pausanias, is a good suggestion of yours, that we make a point of consulting our comfort in our cups: for I myself am one of those who got such a soaking yesterday.”When Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, heard this; “You are quite right, sirs,” he said; “and there is yet one other question on which I request your opinion, as to what sort of condition Agathon finds himself in for drinking.”“No, no,” said Agathon, “I am not in good condition for it either.” “It would be a piece of luck for us, I take it,” the other went on, “that is, for me, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and our friends here, if you who are the stoutest drinkers are now feeling exhausted. We, of course, are known weaklings. Socrates I do not count in the matter: he is fit either way, and will be content with whichever choice we make. Now as it appears that nobody here present is eager for copious draughts, perhaps it will be the less irksome to you if I speak of intoxication, and tell you truly what it is. The practice of medicine, I find, has made this clear to me— that drunkenness is harmful to mankind; and neither would I myself agree, if I could help it, to an excess of drinking, nor would I recommend it to another, especially when his head is still heavy from a bout of the day before.”Here Phaedrus of Myrrhinus interrupted him, saying: “Why, you know I always obey you, above all in medical matters; and so now will the rest of us, if they are well advised.” Then all of them, on hearing this, consented not to make their present meeting a tipsy affair, but to drink just as it might serve their pleasure.“Since it has been resolved, then,” said Eryximachus, “that we are to drink only so much as each desires, with no constraint on any, I next propose that the flute-girl who came in just now be dismissed: let her pipe to herself or, if she likes, to the women-folk within, but let us seek our entertainment today in conversation. I am ready, if you so desire, to suggest what sort of discussion it should be.” Eryximachus proposes the Theme of LoveThey all said they did so desire, and bade him make his proposal. So Eryximachus proceeded: “The beginning of what I have to say is in the words of Euripides' Melanippe, for ‘not mine the tale’Eurip. fr. 488 OU)K E)MO\S O( MU=QOS, A)LL' E)MH=S MHTRO\S PA/RA, “not mine the tale; my mother taught it me.” that I intend to tell; it comes from Phaedrus here. He is constantly complaining to me and saying,—Is it not a curious thing, Eryximachus, that while other gods have hymns and psalms indited in their honor by the poets, the god of Love, so ancient and so great, has had no song of praise composed for him by a single one of all the many poets that ever have been? And again, pray consider our worthy professors, and the eulogies they frame of Hercules and others in prose,—for example, the excellent Prodicus.The moralizing sophist, famous for his parable of (Xen. Mem. 2.1.21), where the appeal of Virtue prevails over that of Vice. This indeed is not so surprising but I recollect coming across a book by somebody, in which I found Salt superbly lauded for its usefulness, and many more such matters I could show you celebrated there. To think of all this bustle about such trifles, and not a single man ever essaying till this day to make a fitting hymn to Love! So great a god, and so neglected! Now I think Phaedrus's protest a very proper one. Accordingly I am not only desirous of obliging him with a contribution of my own, but I also pronounce the present to be a fitting occasion for us here assembled to honor the god. So if you on your part approve, we might pass the time well enough in discourses; for my opinion is that we ought each of us to make a speech in turn, from left to right, praising Love as beautifully as he can. Phaedrus shall open first; for he has the topmost place at table, and besides is father of our debate.”“No one, Eryximachus,” said Socrates, “will vote against you: I do not see how I could myself decline, when I set up to understand nothing but love-matters; nor could Agathon and Pausanias either, nor yet Aristophanes, who divides his time between Dionysus and Aphrodite; nor could any other of the persons I see before me. To be sure, we who sit at the bottom do not get a fair chance: but if the earlier speakers rise nobly to the occasion, we shall be quite content. So now let Phaedrus, with our best wishes, make a beginning and give us a eulogy of Love.”To this they assented one and all, bidding him do as Socrates said. Now the entire speech in each case was beyond Aristodemus's recollection, and so too the whole of what he told me is beyond mine: but those parts which, on account also of the speakers, I deemed most memorable, I will tell you successively as they were delivered.The Speech of Phaedrus First then, as I said, he told me that the speech of Phaedrus began with points of this sort—that Love was a great god, among men and gods a marvel; and this appeared in many ways, but notably in his birth. “Of the most venerable are the honors of this god, and the proof of it is this: parents of Love there are none, nor are any recorded in either prose or verse. Hesiod says that Chaos came first into being—and thereafter roseBroad-breasted Earth, sure seat of all for aye,And Love.Hes. Theog. 116AcusilausAn Argive compiler of genealogies in the first part of the fifth century B.C. also agrees with Hesiod, saying that after Chaos were born these two, Earth and Love. Parmenides says of Birth that she invented Love before all other gods.Parmenides fr. 132Cf. Aristot. Met. 1.984b. “Thus Love is by various authorities allowed to be of most venerable standing; and as most venerable, he is the cause of all our highest blessings. I for my part am at a loss to say what greater blessing a man can have in earliest youth than an honorable lover, or a lover than an honorable favorite. For the guiding principle we should choose for all our days, if we are minded to live a comely life, cannot be acquired either by kinship or office or wealth or anything so well as by Love. What shall I call this power? The shame that we feel for shameful things, and ambition for what is noble; without which it is impossible for city or person to perform any high and noble deeds. Let me then say that a man in love, should he be detected in some shameful act or in a cowardly submission to shameful treatment at another's hands, would not feel half so much distress at anyone observing it, whether father or comrade or anyone in the world, as when his favorite did; and in the selfsame way we see how the beloved is especially ashamed before his lovers when he is observed to be about some shameful business. So that if we could somewise contrive to have a city or an army composed of lovers and their favorites,There was such a “sacred band” (I(ERO\S LO/XOS) at Thebes, which distinguished itself at Leuctra (371 B.C.). they could not be better citizens of their country than by thus refraining from all that is base in a mutual rivalry for honor; and such men as these, when fighting side by side, one might almost consider able to make even a little band victorious over all the world. For a man in love would surely choose to have all the rest of the host rather than his favorite see him forsaking his station or flinging away his arms; sooner than this, he would prefer to die many deaths: while, as for leaving his favorite in the lurch, or not succoring him in his peril, no man is such a craven that Love's own influence cannot inspire him with a valor that makes him equal to the bravest born; and without doubt what Homer calls a “fury inspired”Hom. Il. 10.482; Hom. Il. 15.262 by a god in certain heroes is the effect produced on lovers by Love's peculiar power.“Furthermore, only such as are in love will consent to die for others; not merely men will do it, but women too. Sufficient witness is borne to this statement before the people of Greece by Alcestis, daughter of Pelias, who alone was willing to die for her husband, though he had both father and mother. So high did her love exalt her over them in kindness, that they were proved alien to their son and but nominal relations; and when she achieved this deed, it was judged so noble by gods as well as men that, although among all the many doers of noble deeds they are few and soon counted to whom the gods have granted the privilege of having their souls sent up again from Hades, hers they thus restored in admiration of her act. In this manner even the gods give special honor to zeal and courage in concerns of love. But Orpheus, son of Oeagrus, they sent back with failure from Hades, showing him only a wraith of the woman for whom he came; her real self they would not bestow, for he was accounted to have gone upon a coward's quest, too like the minstrel that he was, and to have lacked the spirit to die as Alcestis did for the sake of love, when he contrived the means of entering Hades alive. Wherefore they laid upon him the penalty he deserved, and caused him to meet his death at the hands of women: whereas Achilles, son of Thetis, they honored and sent to his place in the Isles of the Blest,Pindar O. 2.78ff. (Hom. Od. 11.467ff., places him in Hades). because having learnt from his mother that he would die as surely as he slew Hector,Hom. Il. 18.96. but if he slew him not, would return home and end his days an aged man, he bravely chose to go and rescue his lover Patroclus, avenged him, and sought death not merely in his behalf but in haste to be joined with him whom death had taken. For this the gods so highly admired him that they gave him distinguished honor, since he set so great a value on his lover. And AeschylusAesch. fr. 135-136. talks nonsense when he says that it was Achilles who was in love with Patroclus; for he excelled in beauty not Patroclus alone but assuredly all the other heroes, being still beardless and, moreover, much the younger, by Homer's account.Hom. Il. 11.786. For in truth there is no sort of valor more respected by the gods than this which comes of love; yet they are even more admiring and delighted and beneficent when the beloved is fond of his lover than when the lover is fond of his favorite; since a lover, filled as he is with a god, surpasses his favorite in divinity. This is the reason why they honored Achilles above Alcestis, giving him his abode in the Isles of the Blest.“So there is my description of Love—that he is the most venerable and valuable of the gods, and that he has sovereign power to provide all virtue and happiness for men whether living or departed.” The Speech of PausaniasSuch in the main was Phaedrus' speech as reported to me. It was followed by several others, which my friend could not recollect at all clearly; so he passed them over and related that of Pausanias, which ran as follows: “I do not consider, Phaedrus, our plan of speaking a good one, if the rule is simply that we are to make eulogies of Love. If Love were only one, it would be right; but, you see, he is not one, and this being the case, it would be more correct to have it previously announced what sort we ought to praise. Now this defect I will endeavor to amend, and will first decide on a Love who deserves our praise, and then will praise him in terms worthy of his godhead. We are all aware that there is no Aphrodite or Love-passion without a Love. True, if that goddess were one, then Love would be one: but since there are two of her, there must needs be two Loves also. Does anyone doubt that she is double? Surely there is the elder, of no mother born, but daughter of Heaven, whence we name her Heavenly;Hdt. 1.105, Hdt. 1.131; Paus. 1.14.7. while the younger was the child of Zeus and Dione, and her we call Popular.Paus. 1.22.3. It follows then that of the two Loves also the one ought to be called Popular, as fellow-worker with the one of those goddesses, and the other Heavenly. All gods, of course, ought to be praised: but none the less I must try to describe the faculties of each of these two. For of every action it may be observed that as acted by itself it is neither noble nor base. For instance, in our conduct at this moment, whether we drink or sing or converse, none of these things is noble in itself; each only turns out to be such in the doing, as the manner of doing it may be. For when the doing of it is noble and right, the thing itself becomes noble; when wrong, it becomes base. So also it is with loving, and Love is not in every case noble or worthy of celebration, but only when he impels us to love in a noble manner.“Now the Love that belongs to the Popular Aphrodite is in very truth popular and does his work at haphazard: this is the Love we see in the meaner sort of men; who, in the first place, love women as well as boys; secondly, where they love, they are set on the body more than the soul; and thirdly, they choose the most witless people they can find, since they look merely to the accomplishment and care not if the manner be noble or no. Hence they find themselves doing everything at haphazard, good or its opposite, without distinction: for this Love proceeds from the goddess who is far the younger of the two, and who in her origin partakes of both female and male. But the other Love springs from the Heavenly goddess who, firstly, partakes not of the female but only of the male; and secondly, is the elder, untinged with wantonness: wherefore those who are inspired by this Love betake them to the male, in fondness for what has the robuster nature and a larger share of mind. Even in the passion for boys you may note the way of those who are under the single incitement of this Love: they love boys only when they begin to acquire some mind—a growth associated with that of down on their chins. For I conceive that those who begin to love them at this age are prepared to be always with them and share all with them as long as life shall last: they will not take advantage of a boy's green thoughtlessness to deceive him and make a mock of him by running straight off to another. Against this love of boys a law should have been enacted, to prevent the sad waste of attentions paid to an object so uncertain: for who can tell where a boy will end at last, vicious or virtuous in body and soul? Good men, however, voluntarily make this law for themselves, and it is a rule which those ‘popular’ lovers ought to be forced to obey, just as we force them, so far as we can, to refrain from loving our freeborn women. These are the persons responsible for the scandal which prompts some to say it is a shame to gratify one's lover: such are the cases they have in view, for they observe all their reckless and wrongful doings; and surely, whatsoever is done in an orderly and lawful manner can never justly bring reproach.“Further, it is easy to note the rule with regard to love in other cities: there it is laid down in simple terms, while ours here is complicated. For in Elis and Boeotia and where there is no skill in speech they have simply an ordinance that it is seemly to gratify lovers, and no one whether young or old will call it shameful, in order, I suppose, to save themselves the trouble of trying what speech can do to persuade the youths; for they have no ability for speaking. But in Ionia and many other regions where they live under foreign sway, it is counted a disgrace. Foreigners hold this thing, and all training in philosophy and sports, to be disgraceful, because of their despotic government; since, I presume, it is not to the interest of their princes to have lofty notions engendered in their subjects, or any strong friendships and communions; all of which Love is pre-eminently apt to create. It is a lesson that our despots learnt by experience; for Aristogeiton's love and Harmodius's friendship grew to be so steadfast that it wrecked their power. Thus where it was held a disgrace to gratify one's lover, the tradition is due to the evil ways of those who made such a law— that is, to the encroachments of the rulers and to the cowardice of the ruled. But where it was accepted as honorable without any reserve, this was due to a sluggishness of mind in the law-makers. In our city we have far better regulations, which, as I said, are not so easily grasped.“Consider, for instance, our saying that it is more honorable to love openly than in secret, especially when the beloved excels not so much in beauty as in nobility and virtue; and again, what a wonderful encouragement a lover gets from us all: we have no thought of his doing anything unseemly, and success in his pursuit is counted honorable and failure disgraceful; and how in his endeavors for success our law leaves him a free hand for performing such admirable acts as may win him praise; while the same acts, if attempted for any other purpose or effect to which one might be inclined, would bring one nothing in return but the sharpest reproach. For suppose that with the view of gaining money from another, or some office, or any sort of influence, a man should allow himself to behave as lovers commonly do to their favorites—pressing their suit with supplications and entreaties, binding themselves with vows, sleeping on doorsteps, and submitting to such slavery as no slave would ever endure—both the friends and the enemies of such a man would hinder his behaving in such fashion; for while the latter would reproach him with adulation and ill-breeding, the former would admonish him and feel ashamed of his conduct. But in a lover all such doings only win him favor: by free grant of our law he may behave thus without reproach, as compassing a most honorable end. Strangest of all, he alone in the vulgar opinion has indulgence from the gods when he forsakes the vow he has sworn; for the vow of love-passion, they say, is no vow.Cf. Sophocles, fr. 694 O(/RKOUS DE\ MOIXW=N EI)S TE/FRAN E)GW\ GRA/FW, “the lecher's vows in ashes I record.” So true it is that both gods and men have given absolute licence to the lover, as our Athenian law provides. Thus far, then, we have ground for supposing that here in our city both loving some one and showing affection to one's lover are held in highest honor. But it happens that fathers put tutors in charge of their boys when they are beloved, to prevent them from conversing with their lovers: the tutor has strict injunctions on the matter, and when they observe a boy to be guilty of such a thing his playmates and fellows reproach him, while his reproachers are not in their turn withheld or upbraided by their elders as speaking amiss; and from this it might rather be inferred that his behavior is held to be a great disgrace in Athens. Yet the truth of it, I think, is this: the affair is no simple thing; you remember we said that by itself it was neither noble nor base, but that it was noble if nobly conducted, and base if basely. To do the thing basely is to gratify a wicked man in a wicked manner: ‘nobly’ means having to do with a good man in a noble manner. By ‘wicked’ we mean that popular lover, who craves the body rather than the soul: as he is not in love with what abides, he himself is not abiding. As soon as the bloom of the body he so loved begins to fade he ‘flutters off and is gone,’So Agamemnon speaks of the dream which brought him a message through the lips of Nestor (Hom. Il. 2.71). leaving all his speeches and promises dishonored: whereas the lover of a nature that is worthy abides throughout life, as being fused into one with the abiding.“Now our law has a sure and excellent test for the trial of these persons, showing which are to be favored and which to be shunned. In the one case, accordingly, it encourages pursuit, but flight in the other, applying ordeals and tests in each case, whereby we are able to rank the lover and the beloved on this side or on that. And so it is for this reason that our convention regards a quick capitulation as a disgrace: for there ought, first, to be a certain interval—the generally approved touchstone—of time; and, second, it is disgraceful if the surrender is due to gold or public preferment, or is a mere cowering away from the endurance of ill-treatment, or shows the youth not properly contemptuous of such benefits as he may receive in pelf or political success. For in these there appears nothing steadfast or abiding, unless it be the impossibility of their producing a noble friendship. One way remains in our custom whereby a favorite may rightly gratify his lover: it is our rule that, just as in the case of the lovers it was counted no flattery or scandal for them to be willingly and utterly enslaved to their favorites, so there is left one sort of voluntary thraldom which is not scandalous; I mean, in the cause of virtue.“It is our settled tradition that when a man freely devotes his service to another in the belief that his friend will make him better in point of wisdom, it may be, or in any of the other parts of virtue, this willing bondage also is no sort of baseness or flattery. Let us compare the two rules— one dealing with the passion for boys, and the other with the love of wisdom and all virtuous ways: by this we shall see if we are to conclude it a good thing that a favorite should gratify his lover. For when lover and favorite come together, each guided by his own rule—on the one side, of being justified in doing any service to the favorite who has obliged him, and on the other, of being justified in showing any attentions to the friend who makes him wise and good; the elder of his plenty contributing to intellectual and all other excellence, the younger in his paucity acquiring education and all learned arts: only then, at the meeting of these two principles in one place, only then and there, and in no other case, can it befall that a favorite may honorably indulge his lover. To have such hopes deceived is no disgrace; while those of any other sort must be disgraceful, whether deceived or not. For suppose that a youth had a lover he deemed to be wealthy and, after obliging him for the sake of his wealth, were to find himself deceived and no money to be got, since the lover proved to be poor; this would be disgraceful all the same; since the youth may be said to have revealed his character, and shown himself ready to do anyone any service for pelf, and this is not honorable. By the same token, when a youth gratifies a friend, supposing him to be a good man and expecting to be made better himself as a result of his lover's affection, and then finds he is deceived, since his friend proves to be vile and destitute of virtue; even so the deception is honorable. For this youth is also held to have discovered his nature, by showing that he would make anyone the object of his utmost ardor for the sake of virtuous improvement; and this by contrast is supremely honorable. Thus by all means it is right to bestow this favor for the sake of virtue.“This is the Love that belongs to the Heavenly Goddess, heavenly itself and precious to both public and private life: for this compels lover and beloved alike to feel a zealous concern for their own virtue. But lovers of the other sort belong all to the other Goddess, the Popular. Such, Phaedrus, is the contribution I am able to offer you, on the spur of the moment, towards the discussion of Love.”Pausanias' praise made a pause with this phrase—you see what jingles the schoolmen are teaching me!The punning assonance alludes to those sophists who developed the etymological suggestions of Heracleitus and Aeschylus into mere sound-effects for prose. A more serious philological development is discussed in Plat. Crat. 396. The next speaker, so Aristodemus told me, was to have been Aristophanes: but a surfeit or some other cause had chanced to afflict him with a hiccough, which prevented him from speaking; and he could only just say to Eryximachus the doctor, whose place was next below him, “I look to you Eryximachus, either to stop my hiccough, or to speak in my stead until I can stop it.” “Why, I will do both,” replied Eryximachus “for I will take your turn for speaking, and when you have stopped it, you shall take mine. But during my speech, if on your holding your breath a good while the hiccough chooses to stop, well and good; otherwise, you must gargle with some water. If, however, it is a very stubborn one, take something that will tickle your nostrils, and sneeze: do this once or twice, and though it be of the stubbornest, it will stop.” “Start away with your speech,” said Aristophanes, “and I will do as you advise.”The Speech of Eryximachus Then Eryximachus spoke as follows: “Well then, since Pausanias did not properly finish off the speech he began so well, I must do my best to append a conclusion thereto. His division of Love into two sorts appears to me a good one: but medicine, our great mystery, has taught me to observe that Love is not merely an impulse of human souls towards beautiful men but the attraction of all creatures to a great variety of things, which works in the bodies of all animals and all growths upon the earth, and practically in everything that is; and I have learnt how mighty and wonderful and universal is the sway of this god over all affairs both human and divine.This cosmic theory was derived from Empedocles, who spoke of Love as the combining, and Strife as the disruptive, force pervading the universe. Reverence for my profession prompts me to begin with the witness of medicine. This double Love belongs to the nature of all bodies: for between bodily health and sickness there is an admitted difference or dissimilarity, and what is dissimilar craves and loves dissimilar things. Hence the desire felt by a sound body is quite other than that of a sickly one. Now I agree with what Pausanias was just saying, that it is right to gratify good men, base to gratify the dissolute: similarly, in treating actual bodies it is right and necessary to gratify the good and healthy elements of each, and this is what we term the physician's skill; but it is a disgrace to do aught but disappoint the bad and sickly parts, if one aims at being an adept. For the art of medicine may be summarily described as a knowledge of the love-matters of the body in regard to repletion and evacuation; and the master-physician is he who can distinguish there between the nobler and baser Loves, and can effect such alteration that the one passion is replaced by the other; and he will be deemed a good practitioner who is expert in producing Love where it ought to flourish but exists not, and in removing it from where it should not be. Indeed he must be able to make friends and happy lovers of the keenest opponents in the body. Now the most contrary qualities are most hostile to each other—cold and hot, bitter and sweet, dry and moist, and the rest of them. It was by knowing how to foster love and unanimity in these that, as our two poetsAristophanes and Agathon. here relate, and as I myself believe, our forefather Asclepius composed this science of ours. And so not merely is all medicine governed, as I propound it, through the influence of this god, but likewise athletics and agriculture. Music also, as is plain to any the least curious observer, is in the same sort of case: perhaps Heracleitus intends as much by those perplexing words, ‘The One at variance with itself is drawn together, like harmony of bow or lyre.’Heracl. fr. (Bywater). The universe is held together by the strain of opposing forces, just as the right use of bow or lyre depends on opposite tension. Now it is perfectly absurd to speak of a harmony at variance, or as formed from things still varying. Perhaps he meant, however, that from the grave and acute which were varying before, but which afterwards came to agreement, the harmony was by musical art created. For surely there can be no harmony of acute and grave while still at variance: harmony is consonance, and consonance is a kind of agreement; and agreement of things varying, so long as they are at variance, is impossible. On the other hand, when a thing varies with no disability of agreement, then it may be harmonized; just as rhythm is produced by fast and slow, which in the beginning were at variance but later came to agree. In all these cases the agreement is brought about by music which, like medicine in the former instance, introduces a mutual love and unanimity. Hence in its turn music is found to be a knowledge of love-matters relating to harmony and rhythm. In the actual system of harmony or rhythm we can easily distinguish these love-matters; as yet the double Love is absent: but when we come to the application of rhythm and harmony to social life, whether we construct what are called ‘melodies' or render correctly, by what is known as ‘training,’ tunes and measures already constructed, we find here a certain difficulty and require a good craftsman. Round comes the same conclusion: well-ordered men, and the less regular only so as to bring them to better order, should be indulged in this Love, and this is the sort we should preserve; this is the noble, the Heavenly Love, sprung from the Heavenly Muse. But the Popular Love comes from the Queen of Various Song; in applying him we must proceed with all caution, that no debauchery be implanted with the reaping of his pleasure, just as in our craft we set high importance on a right use of the appetite for dainties of the table, that we may cull the pleasure without disease. Thus in music and medicine and every other affair whether human or divine, we must be on the watch as far as may be for either sort of Love; for both are there.“Note how even the system of the yearly seasons is full of these two forces; how the qualities I mentioned just now, heat and cold, drought and moisture, when brought together by the orderly Love, and taking on a temperate harmony as they mingle, become bearers of ripe fertility and health to men and animals and plants, and are guilty of no wrong. But when the wanton-spirited Love gains the ascendant in the seasons of the year, great destruction and wrong does he wreak. For at these junctures are wont to arise pestilences and many other varieties of disease in beasts and herbs; likewise hoar-frosts, hails, and mildews, which spring from mutual encroachments and disturbances in such love-connections as are studied in relation to the motions of the stars and the yearly seasons by what we term astronomy. So further, all sacrifices and ceremonies controlled by divination, namely, all means of communion between gods and men, are only concerned with either the preservation or the cure of Love. For impiety is usually in each case the result of refusing to gratify the orderly Love or to honor and prefer him in all our affairs, and of yielding to the other in questions of duty towards one's parents whether alive or dead, and also towards the gods. To divination is appointed the task of supervising and treating the health of these Loves; wherefore that art, as knowing what human love-affairs will lead to seemliness and pious observance, is indeed a purveyor of friendship betwixt gods and men.“Thus Love, conceived as a single whole, exerts a wide, a strong, nay, in short, a complete power: but that which is consummated for a good purpose, temperately and justly, both here on earth and in heaven above, wields the mightiest power of all and provides us with a perfect bliss; so that we are able to consort with one another and have friendship with the gods who are above us. It may well be that with the best will in the world I have omitted many points in the praise I owe to Love; but any gaps which I may have left it is your business, Aristophanes, to fill: or if you intend some different manner of glorifying the god, let us hear your eulogy, for you have stopped your hiccough now.” Then, as my friend related, Aristophanes took up the word and said: “Yes, it has stopped, though not until it was treated with a course of sneezing, such as leaves me wondering that the orderly principle of the body should call for the noises and titillations involved in sneezing; you see, it stopped the very moment I applied the sneeze to it.”“My good Aristophanes,” replied Eryximachus, “take heed what you are about. Here are you buffooning before ever you begin, and compelling me to be on the watch for the first absurdity in your speech, when you might deliver it in peace.”At this Aristophanes laughed, and “Quite right, Eryximachus,” he said; “I unsay all that I have said. Do not keep a watch on me for as to what is going to be said, my fear is not so much of saying something absurd—since that would be all to the good and native to my Muse—as something utterly ridiculous.”“You think you can just let fly, Aristophanes, and get off unscathed! Have a good care to speak only what you can defend; though perhaps I may be pleased to let you off altogether.”The Speech of Aristophanes“It Is indeed my intention, Eryximachus,” said Aristophanes, “to speak in somewhat different strain from you and Pausanias. For in my opinion humanity has entirely failed to perceive the power of Love: if men did perceive it, they would have provided him with splendid temples and altars, and would splendidly honor him with sacrifice; whereas we see none of these things done for him, though they are especially his due. He of all gods is most friendly to men; he succors mankind and heals those ills whose cure must be the highest happiness of the human race. Hence I shall try and introduce you to his power, that you may transmit this teaching to the world at large. You must begin your lesson with the nature of man and its development. For our original nature was by no means the same as it is now. In the first place, there were three kinds of human beings, not merely the two sexes, male and female, as at present: there was a third kind as well, which had equal shares of the other two, and whose name survives though, the thing itself has vanished. For ‘man-woman’i.e. “hermaphrodite”; cf. Lucret. v. 837ff. was then a unity in form no less than name, composed of both sexes and sharing equally in male and female; whereas now it has come to be merely a name of reproach. Secondly, the form of each person was round all over, with back and sides encompassing it every way; each had four arms, and legs to match these, and two faces perfectly alike on a cylindrical neck. There was one head to the two faces, which looked opposite ways; there were four ears, two privy members, and all the other parts, as may be imagined, in proportion. The creature walked upright as now, in either direction as it pleased and whenever it started running fast, it went like our acrobats, whirling over and over with legs stuck out straight; only then they had eight limbs to support and speed them swiftly round and round. The number and features of these three sexes were owing to the fact that the male was originally the offspring of the sun, and the female of the earth; while that which partook of both sexes was born of the moon, for the moon also partakes of both.The double sex of the moon is mentioned in an Orphic hymn (ix. 4): cf. Macrob. iii. 8. They were globular in their shape as in their progress, since they took after their parents. Now, they were of surprising strength and vigor, and so lofty in their notions that they even conspired against the gods; and the same story is told of them as Homer relates of Ephialtes and Otus,Hom. Od. 11.305ff.; Hom. Il. 5.385ff. that scheming to assault the gods in fight they essayed to mount high heaven.“Thereat Zeus and the other gods debated what they should do, and were perplexed: for they felt they could not slay them like the Giants, whom they had abolished root and branch with strokes of thunder—it would be only abolishing the honors and observances they had from men; nor yet could they endure such sinful rioting. Then Zeus, putting all his wits together, spoke at length and said: ‘Methinks I can contrive that men, without ceasing to exist, shall give over their iniquity through a lessening of their strength. I propose now to slice every one of them in two, so that while making them weaker we shall find them more useful by reason of their multiplication; and they shall walk erect upon two legs. If they continue turbulent and do not choose to keep quiet, I will do it again,’ said he; ‘I will slice every person in two, and then they must go their ways on one leg, hopping.’ So saying, he sliced each human being in two, just as they slice sorb-apples to make a dry preserve, or eggs with hairs; and at the cleaving of each he bade Apollo turn its face and half-neck to the section side, in order that every one might be made more orderly by the sight of the knife's work upon him; this done, the god was to heal them up. Then Apollo turned their faces about, and pulled their skin together from the edges over what is now called the belly, just like purses which you draw close with a string; the little opening he tied up in the middle of the belly, so making what we know as the navel. For the rest, he smoothed away most of the puckers and figured out the breast with some such instrument as shoemakers use in smoothing the wrinkles of leather on the last; though he left there a few which we have just about the belly and navel, to remind us of our early fall. Now when our first form had been cut in two, each half in longing for its fellow would come to it again; and then would they fling their arms about each other and in mutual embraces yearn to be grafted together, till they began to perish of hunger and general indolence, through refusing to do anything apart. And whenever on the death of one half the other was left alone, it went searching and embracing to see if it might happen on that half of the whole woman which now we call a woman, or perchance the half of the whole man. In this plight they were perishing away, when Zeus in his pity provided a fresh device. He moved their privy parts to the front—for until then they had these, like all else, on the outside, and did their begetting and bringing forth not on each other but on the earth, like the crickets. These parts he now shifted to the front, to be used for propagating on each other—in the female member by means of the male; so that if in their embracements a man should happen on a woman there might be conception and continuation of their kind; and also, if male met with male they might have satiety of their union and a relief, and so might turn their hands to their labors and their interest to ordinary life. Thus anciently is mutual love ingrained in mankind, reassembling our early estate and endeavoring to combine two in one and heal the human sore.“Each of us, then, is but a tallyA tally, or notched stick matching another, is the nearest English equivalent for SU/MBOLON, which was a half of a broken die given and kept as a token of friendship; see below, Plat. Sym. 193a (LI/STAI). of a man, since every one shows like a flat-fish the traces of having been sliced in two; and each is ever searching for the tally that will fit him. All the men who are sections of that composite sex that at first was called man-woman are woman-courters; our adulterers are mostly descended from that sex, whence likewise are derived our man-courting women and adulteresses. All the women who are sections of the woman have no great fancy for men: they are inclined rather to women, and of this stock are the she-minions. Men who are sections of the male pursue the masculine, and so long as their boyhood lasts they show themselves to be slices of the male by making friends with men and delighting to lie with them and to be clasped in men's embraces; these are the finest boys and striplings, for they have the most manly nature. Some say they are shameless creatures, but falsely: for their behavior is due not to shamelessness but to daring, manliness, and virility, since they are quick to welcome their like. Sure evidence of this is the fact that on reaching maturity these alone prove in a public career to be men. So when they come to man's estate they are boy-lovers, and have no natural interest in wiving and getting children, but only do these things under stress of custom; they are quite contented to live together unwedded all their days. A man of this sort is at any rate born to be a lover of boys or the willing mate of a man, eagerly greeting his own kind. Well, when one of them—whether he be a boy-lover or a lover of any other sort— happens on his own particular half, the two of them are wondrously thrilled with affection and intimacy and love, and are hardly to be induced to leave each other's side for a single moment. These are they who continue together throughout life, though they could not even say what they would have of one another. No one could imagine this to be the mere amorous connection, or that such alone could be the reason why each rejoices in the other's company with so eager a zest: obviously the soul of each is wishing for something else that it cannot express, only divining and darkly hinting what it wishes. Suppose that, as they lay together, Hephaestus should come and stand over them, and showing his implementsi.e. his anvil (Hom. Od. 8.274), bellows, tongs, and hammer (Hom. Il. 18.372ff., Hom. Il. 18.474ff.). should ask: ‘What is it, good mortals, that you would have of one another?’—and suppose that in their perplexity he asked them again: ‘Do you desire to be joined in the closest possible union, so that you shall not be divided by night or by day? If that is your craving, I am ready to fuse and weld you together in a single piece, that from being two you may be made one; that so long as you live, the pair of you, being as one, may share a single life; and that when you die you may also in Hades yonder be one instead of two, having shared a single death. Bethink yourselves if this is your heart's desire, and if you will be quite contented with this lot.’ No one on hearing this, we are sure, would demur to it or would be found wishing for anything else: each would unreservedly deem that he had been offered just what he was yearning for all the time, namely, to be so joined and fused with his beloved that the two might be made one.“The cause of it all is this, that our original form was as I have described, and we were entire; and the craving and pursuit of that entirety is called Love. Formerly, as I have said, we were one; but now for our sins we are all dispersed by God, as the Arcadians were by the LacedaemoniansProbably referring to the dispersal of Mantinea into villages in 385 B.C. (Xen. Hell. 5.2.1ff.).; and we may well be afraid that if we are disorderly towards Heaven we may once more be cloven asunder and may go about in the shape of those outline-carvings on the tombs, with our noses sawn down the middle, and may thus become like tokens of split dice. Wherefore we ought all to exhort our neighbors to a pious observance of the gods, in order that we may escape harm and attain to bliss under the gallant leadership of Love. Let none in act oppose him—and it is opposing him to incur the hate of Heaven: if we make friends with the god and are reconciled, we shall have the fortune that falls to few in our day, of discovering our proper favorites. And let not Eryximachus interrupt my speech with a comic mock, and say I refer to Pausanias and Agathon; it may be they do belong to the fortunate few, and are both of them males by nature; what I mean is—and this applies to the whole world of men and women—that the way to bring happiness to our race is to give our love its true fulfillment: let every one find his own favorite, and so revert to his primal estate. If this be the best thing of all, the nearest approach to it among all acts open to us now must accordingly be the best to choose; and that is, to find a favorite whose nature is exactly to our mind. Love is the god who brings this about; he fully deserves our hymns. For not only in the present does he bestow the priceless boon of bringing us to our very own, but he also supplies this excellent hope for the future, that if we will supply the gods with reverent duty he will restore us to our ancient life and heal and help us into the happiness of the blest.“There, Eryximachus, is my discourse on Love, of a different sort from yours. As I besought you, make no comic sport of it, for we want to hear what the others will say in their turn—I rather mean the other two, since only Agathon and Socrates are left.”“Well, I will obey you,” said Eryximachus, “for in fact I enjoyed your speech. Had I not reason to know the prowess of Socrates and Agathon in love-matters, I should have great fears of their being at a loss for eloquence after we have heard it in such copious variety: but you see, my confidence is unshaken.”Whereon Socrates remarked: “Your own performance, Eryximachus, made a fine hit: but if you could be where I am now—or rather, I should say, where I shall be when Agathon has spoken—you would be fitly and sorely afraid, and would be as hard put to it as I am.”“You want to throw a spell over me, Socrates,” said Agathon, “so that I may be flustered with the consciousness of the high expectations the audience has formed of my discourse.”“Nay, Agathon, how forgetful I should be,” replied Socrates, “if after noticing your high and manly spirit as you stepped upon the platform with your troupe—how you sent a straight glance at that vast assembly to show that you meant to do yourself credit with your production, and how you were not dismayed in the slightest—if I should now suppose you could be flustered on account of a few fellows like us.”“Why, Socrates,” said Agathon, “I hope you do not always fancy me so puffed up with the playhouse as to forget that an intelligent speaker is more alarmed at a few men of wit than at a host of fools.”“No, Agathon, it would be wrong of me indeed,” said Socrates, “to associate you with any such clownish notion: I am quite sure that on finding yourself with a few persons whom you considered clever you would make more account of them than of the multitude. Yet we, perhaps, are the latter; for we were there, and among the crowd: but suppose you found yourself with other folk who were clever, you would probably feel ashamed that they should witness any shameful act you might feel yourself to be doing. Will you agree to that?” “Quite true,” he said.“Whereas before the multitude you would not be ashamed if you felt you were doing anything shameful?”Here Phaedrus interposed: “My dear Agathon, if you go on answering Socrates he will be utterly indifferent to the fate of our present business, so long as he has some one to argue with, especially some one handsome. For my part, I enjoy listening to Socrates' arguments; but I am responsible for our eulogy of Love, and must levy a speech from every one of you in turn. Let each of you two, then, give the god his meed before you have your argument.”“You are quite right, Phaedrus,” said Agathon, “and there is nothing to hinder my speaking; for I shall find many other occasions for arguing with Socrates.”The Speech of Agathon“I propose first to speak of the plan most proper for my speaking, and after that to speak. Every one of the previous speakers, instead of eulogizing the god, has merely, as it seems to me, felicitated humanity on the benefits he bestows: not one of them has told us what is the nature of the benefactor himself. There is but one correct method of giving anyone any kind of praise, namely to make the words unfold the character of him, and of the blessings brought by him, who is to be our theme. Hence it is meet that we praise him first for what he is and then for what he gives.“So I say that, while all gods are blissful, Love—with no irreverence or offence be it spoken—is the most blissful, as being the most beautiful and the best. How most beautiful, I will explain. First of all, Phaedrus, he is youngest of the gods. He himself supplies clear evidence of this; for he flies and flees from old age—a swift thing obviously, since it gains on us too quickly for our liking. Love hates it by nature, and refuses to come within any distance of it. He is ever consorting with the young, and such also is he: well says the old saw, ‘Like and like together strike.’So Hom. Od. 17.218 “Heaven ever bringeth like and like together.” And though in much else I agree with Phaedrus, in this I agree not, that Love by his account is more ancient than Cronos and IapetusThese two Titans, the sons of Heaven and Earth, were proverbially the original inhabitants of the world: I say he is youngest of the gods and ever young, while those early dealings with the gods which HesiodHes. Th. 176ff., Hes. Th. 746ff. There are no such stories in the remaining fragments of Parmenides. and Parmenides relate, I take to have been the work of Necessity, not of Love, if there is any truth in those stories. For there would have been no gelding or fettering of each other, nor any of those various violences, if Love had been amongst them; rather only amity and peace, such as now subsist ever since Love has reigned over the gods. So then he is young, and delicate withal: he requires a poet such as Homer to set forth his delicacy divine. Homer it is who tells of Ate as both divine and delicate; you recollect those delicate feet of hers, where he says—Yet delicate are her feet, for on the groundShe speeds not, only on the heads of men.Hom. Il. 19.92-93 So I hold it convincing proof of her delicacy that she goes not on hard things but on soft. The same method will serve us to prove the delicacy of Love. Not upon earth goes he, nor on our crowns, which are not very soft;Perhaps here he smiles at or touches the bald head of Socrates. but takes his way and abode in the softest things that exist. The tempers and souls of gods and men are his chosen habitation: not indeed any soul as much as another; when he comes upon one whose temper is hard, away he goes, but if it be soft, he makes his dwelling there. So if with feet and every way he is wont ever to get hold of the softest parts of the softest creatures, he needs must be most delicate. Youngest, then, and most delicate is he, and withal pliant of form: for he would never contrive to fold himself about us every way, nor begin by stealing in and out of every soul so secretly, if he were hard. Clear evidence of his fit proportion and pliancy of form is found in his shapely grace, a quality wherein Love is in every quarter allowed to excel: unshapeliness and Love are ever at war with one another. Beauty of hue in this god is evinced by his seeking his food among flowers: for Love will not settle on body or soul or aught else that is flowerless or whose flower has faded away; while he has only to light on a plot of sweet blossoms and scents to settle there and stay.“Enough has now been said, though much remains unsaid, of the beauty of our god; next shall Love's goodness be my theme. The strongest plea for this is that neither to a god he gives nor from a god receives any injury, nor from men receives it nor to men gives it. For neither is the usage he himself gets a violent usage, since violence takes not hold of Love; nor is there violence in his dealings, since Love wins all men's willing service; and agreements on both sides willingly made are held to be just by “our city's sovereign, the law.”Quoted from Alcidamas, a stylist of the school of Gorgias; Aristot. Rh. 3.1406a. Then, over and above his justice, he is richly endowed with temperance. We all agree that temperance is a control of pleasures and desires, while no pleasure is stronger than Love: if they are the weaker, they must be under Love's control, and he is their controller; so that Love, by controlling pleasures and desires, must be eminently temperate. And observe how in valor “not even the God of War withstands”Soph. Thyest. Fr. 235“Necessity, whom not the God of War withstands.” him; for we hear, not of Love caught by Ares, but of Ares caught by Love—of Aphrodite. The captor is stronger than the caught; and as he controls what is braver than any other, he must be bravest of all. So much for justice and temperance and valor in the god: it remains to speak of skill; and here I must try my best to be adequate. First, if I in turn may dignify our craft as Eryximachus did his, the god is a composer so accomplished that he is a cause of composing in others: every one, you know, becomes a poet, “though alien to the Muse before,”Eur. Sthen. Fr. 663 when Love gets hold of him. This we may fitly take for a testimony that Love is a poet well skilled—I speak summarily—in all composing that has to do with music; for whatever we have not or know not we can neither give to another nor teach our neighbor. And who, let me ask, will gainsay that the composingAgathon here strains the meaning of POIH/THS back to the original and wider one of “maker,” “creator.” Cf. below, Plat. Sym. 205 B.C. of all forms of life is Love's own craft, whereby all creatures are begotten and produced? Again, in artificial manufacture, do we not know that a man who has this god for teacher turns out a brilliant success, whereas he on whom Love has laid no hold is obscure? If Apollo invented archery and medicine and divination,Hom. Il. 2.827, Hom. Il. 1.72; above, Plat. Sym. 190f. it was under the guidance of Desire and Love; so that he too may be deemed a disciple of Love as likewise may the Muses in music, Hephaestus in metal-work, Athene in weaving and Zeus “in pilotage of gods and men.”UnknownCf. Plat. Parm. (Diels2 123) DAI/MWN H(\ PA/NTA KUBERNA=|. Hence also those dealings of the gods were contrived by Love—clearly love of beauty—astir in them, for Love has no concern with ugliness; though aforetime, as I began by saying, there were many strange doings among the gods, as legend tells, because of the dominion of Necessity. But since this god arose, the loving of beautiful things has brought all kinds of benefits both to gods and to men. “Thus I conceive, Phaedrus, that Love was originally of surpassing beauty and goodness, and is latterly the cause of similar excellences in others. And now I am moved to summon the aid of verse, and tell how it is he who makes—Peace among men, and a windless waveless main;Repose for winds, and slumber in our pain.Cf. Hom. Od. 5.391 “Then ceased the wind, and came a windless calm.” Agathon is here displaying his own poetic skill, not quoting. He it is who casts alienation out, draws intimacy in; he brings us together in such friendly gatherings as the present; at feasts and dances and oblations he makes himself our leader; politeness contriving, moroseness outdriving; kind giver of amity, giving no enmity; gracious, superb; a marvel to the wise, a delight to the gods coveted of such as share him not, treasured of such as good share have got; father of luxury, tenderness, elegance, graces and longing and yearning; careful of the good, careless of the bad; in toil and fear, in drink and discourse, our trustiest helmsman, boatswain, champion, deliverer; ornament of all gods and men; leader fairest and best, whom every one should follow, joining tunefully in the burthen of his song, wherewith he enchants the thought of every god and man.“There, Phaedrus,” he said, “the speech I would offer at his shrine: I have done my best to mingle amusement with a decent gravity.” At the end of Agathon's speech, as Aristodemus told me, there was tumultuous applause from all present, at hearing the youngster speak in terms so appropriate to himself and to the god. Then Socrates, with a glance at Eryximachus, said: “Son of Acumenus, do you really call it an unfearful fear that has all this while affrighted me, and myself no prophet in saying just now that Agathon would make a marvellous speech, and I be hard put to it?”“In one part of your statement, that he would speak finely,” replied Eryximachus, “I think you were a true prophet; but as to your being hard put to it, I do not agree.”“But surely, my good sir,” said Socrates, “I am bound to be hard put, I or anyone else in the world who should have to speak after such a fine assortment of eloquence. The greater part of it was not so very astounding; but when we drew towards the close, the beauty of the words and phrases could not but take one's breath away. For myself, indeed, I was so conscious that I should fail to say anything half as fine, that for very shame I was on the point of slinking away, had I had any chance. For his speech so reminded me of Gorgias that I was exactly in the plight described by Homer:Hom. Od. 11.632, where Odysseus is sore afraid that Persephone will send up the Gorgon's head among the crowd of ghosts from Hades. Agathon has just displayed his addiction to the elegant rhetoric of Gorgias. I feared that Agathon in his final phrases would confront me with the eloquent Gorgias' head, and by opposing his speech to mine would turn me thus dumbfounded into stone. And so in that moment I realized what a ridiculous fool I was to fall in with your proposal that I should take my turn in your eulogies of Love, and to call myself an expert in love-matters, when really I was ignorant of the method in which eulogies ought to be made at all. For I was such a silly wretch as to think that one ought in each case to speak the truth about the person eulogized; on this assumption I hoped we might pick out the fairest of the facts and set these forth in their comeliest guise. I was quite elated with the notion of what a fine speech I should make, for I felt that I knew the truth. But now, it appears that this is not what is meant by a good speech of praise; which is rather an ascription of all the highest and fairest qualities, whether the case be so or not; it is really no matter if they are untrue. Our arrangement, it seems, was that each should appear to eulogize Love, not that he should make a real eulogy. Hence it is, sirs, I suppose, that you muster every kind of phrase for your tribute to Love, declaring such and such to be his character and influence, in order to present him in the best and fairest light; successfully, of course, before those who do not know him, though it must be otherwise before those who do; your praise has such a fine impressive air! No, I find I was quite mistaken as to the method required; it was in ignorance that I agreed to take my turn in the round of praising. ‘The tongue,’ you see, undertook, ‘the mind’ did not;Eur. Hipp. 612 “The tongue hath sworn; the mind is yet unsworn.” so good-bye to my bond. I am not to be called upon now as an eulogist in your sense; for such I cannot be. Nevertheless I am ready, if you like, to speak the mere truth in my own way; not to rival your discourses, and so be your laughing-stock. Decide then, Phaedrus, whether you have any need of such a speech besides, and would like to hear the truth told about Love in whatsoever style of terms and phrases may chance to occur by the way.”So Phaedrus and the others bade him speak, just in any manner he himself should think fit.“Then allow me further, Phaedrus, to put some little questions to Agathon, so as to secure his agreement before I begin my speech.” “You have my leave,” said Phaedrus; “so ask him.” After that, my friend told me, Socrates started off in this sort of way:“I must say, my dear Agathon, you gave your speech an excellent introduction, by stating that your duty was first to display the character of Love, and then to treat of his acts. Those opening words I thoroughly admire. So come now, complete your beautiful and magnificent description of Love, and tell me this: Are we so to view his character as to take Love to be love of some object, or of none? My question is not whether he is love of a mother or a father—how absurd it would be to ask whether Love is love of mother or father —but as though I were asking about our notion of ‘father,’ whether one's father is a father of somebody or not. Surely you would say, if you cared to give the proper answer, that the father is father of son or of daughter, would you not?”“Yes, of course,” said Agathon.“And you would say the same of the mother?” He agreed to this too. “Then will you give me just a few more answers,” said Socrates, “so that you may the better grasp my meaning? Suppose I were to ask you, ‘Well now, a brother, viewed in the abstract, is he brother of somebody or not?’”“He is,” said Agathon.“That is, of brother or of sister?” He agreed.“Now try and tell me about Love: is he a love of nothing or of something?” “Of something, to be sure.”“Now then,” said Socrates, “keep carefully in mind what is the object of Love, and only tell me whether he desires the particular thing that is his object.”“Yes, to be sure,” he replied.“Has he or has he not the object of his desire and love when he desires and loves it?”“He does not have it, most likely,” he said.“Not as a likelihood,” said Socrates, “but as a necessity, consider if the desiring subject must have desire for something it lacks, and again, no desire if it has no lack. I at least, Agathon, am perfectly sure it is a necessity. How does it strike you?”“I am sure of it also,” said he.“Very good. Now could a tall man wish to be tall, or a strong man to be strong?”“By what has been admitted, this is impossible.”“Since, I suppose, the man in each case would not be lacking the quality mentioned.”“True.”“For if, being strong, he should wish to be strong,” said Socrates, “or being swift, to be swift, or being healthy, to be healthy,—since we are apt to suppose in these and all such cases that men of this or that sort, possessing these qualities, do also desire what they have already: I put this in, to prevent any misconception; these men, Agathon, if you consider, are bound to have at the very moment each thing that they have whether they wish it or not; and how, I ask, is a man going to desire that? No, when a person says, ‘I being healthy, want to be healthy; being rich, I want to be rich; I desire the very things that I have’—we shall tell him, ‘My good sir, riches you possess, and health and strength, which you would like to possess in the future also: for the time now present you have them whether you would or no. When you say, “I desire these present things,” we suggest you are merely saying “I wish these things now present to be present also in the future.” Would he not admit our point?” To this Agathon assented.“And so,” continued Socrates, “a man may be said to love a thing not yet provided or possessed, when he would have the presence of certain things secured to him for ever in the future.”“Certainly,” he said. “Then such a person, and in general all who feel desire, feel it for what is not provided or present; for something they have not or are not or lack and that sort of thing is the object of desire and love?”“Assuredly,” he said.“Now then,” said Socrates, “let us agree to what we have so far concluded. First, is not Love directed to certain things of which, in the second place, he has a want?”“Yes,” he said. “Then, granting this, recollect what things you named in our discussion as the objects of Love: if you like, I will remind you. What you said, I believe, was to the effect that the gods contrived the world from a love of beautiful things, for of ugly there was no love. Did you not say something of the sort?”“Yes, I did,” said Agathon.“And quite properly, my friend,” said Socrates; “then, such being the case, must not Love be only love of beauty, and not of ugliness?” He assented. “Well then, we have agreed that he loves what he lacks and has not?”“Yes,” he replied.“And what Love lacks and has not is beauty?”“That needs must be,” he said.“Well now, will you say that what lacks beauty, and in no wise possesses it, is beautiful?”“Surely not.”“So can you still allow Love to be beautiful, if this is the case?”Whereupon Agathon said, “I greatly fear, Socrates, I knew nothing of what I was talking about.” “Ah, your words were beautiful enough, Agathon; but pray give me one or two more: you hold, do you not, that good things are beautiful?”“I do.”“Then if Love lacks beautiful things, and good things are beautiful, he must lack good things too.”“I see no means, Socrates, of contradicting you, he replied; “let it be as you say.”“No, it is Truth, my lovable Agathon, whom you cannot contradict: Socrates you easily may.”The Speech of Socrates“And now I shall let you alone, and proceed with the discourse upon Love which I heard one day from a Mantinean woman named Diotima:These names suggest a connection respectively with prophecy and with the favor of Heaven. in this subject she was skilled, and in many others too; for once, by bidding the Athenians offer sacrifices ten years before the plague, she procured them so much delay in the advent of the sickness. Well, I also had my lesson from her in love-matters; so now I will try and follow up the points on which Agathon and I have just agreed by narrating to you all on my own account, as well as I am able, the speech she delivered to me. So first, Agathon, I must unfold, in your manner of exposition, who and what sort of being is Love, and then I shall tell of his works. The readiest way, I think, will be to give my description that form of question and answer which the stranger woman used for hers that day. For I spoke to her in much the same terms as Agathon addressed just now to me, saying Love was a great god, and was of beautiful things; and she refuted me with the very arguments I have brought against our young friend, showing that by my account that god was neither beautiful nor good.“‘How do you mean, Diotima?’ said I; ‘is Love then ugly and bad?’“‘Peace, for shame!’ she replied: ‘or do you imagine that whatever is not beautiful must needs be ugly?’ “‘To be sure I do.’“‘And what is not skilled, ignorant? Have you not observed that there is something halfway between skill and ignorance?’“‘What is that?’“‘You know, of course, that to have correct opinion, if you can give no reason for it, is neither full knowledge—how can an unreasoned thing be knowledge?—nor yet ignorance; for what hits on the truth cannot be ignorance. So correct opinion, I take it, is just in that position, between understanding and ignorance.’“‘Quite true,’ I said. “‘Then do not compel what is not beautiful to be ugly,’ she said, ‘or what is not good to be bad. Likewise of Love, when you find yourself admitting that he is not good nor beautiful, do not therefore suppose he must be ugly and bad, but something betwixt the two.’“‘And what of the notion,’ I asked, ‘to which every one agrees, that he is a great god?’“‘Every one? People who do not know,’ she rejoined, ‘or those who know also?’“‘I mean everybody in the world.’ “At this she laughed and said, ‘But how, Socrates, can those agree that he is a great god who say he is no god at all?’“‘What persons are they?’ I asked.“‘You are one,’ she replied, ‘and I am another.’“‘How do you make that out?’ I said.“‘Easily,’ said she; ‘tell me, do you not say that all gods are happy and beautiful? Or will you dare to deny that any god is beautiful and happy?’“‘Bless me!’ I exclaimed, ‘not I.’“‘And do you not call those happy who possess good and beautiful things?’ “‘Certainly I do.’“‘But you have admitted that Love, from lack of good and beautiful things, desires these very things that he lacks.’“‘Yes, I have.’“‘How then can he be a god, if he is devoid of things beautiful and good?’“‘By no means, it appears.’“‘So you see,’ she said, ‘you are a person who does not consider Love to be a god.’“‘What then,’ I asked, ‘can Love be? A mortal?’“‘Anything but that.’ “‘Well what?’“‘As I previously suggested, between a mortal and an immortal.’“‘And what is that, Diotima?’“‘A great spirit, Socrates: for the whole of the spiritual*DAI/MONES and TO\ DAIMO/NION represent the mysterious agencies and influences by which the gods communicate with mortals. is between divine and mortal.’“‘Possessing what power?’ I asked.“‘Interpreting and transporting human things to the gods and divine things to men; entreaties and sacrifices from below, and ordinances and requitals from above: being midway between, it makes each to supplement the other, so that the whole is combined in one. Through it are conveyed all divination and priestcraft concerning sacrifice and ritual and incantations, and all soothsaying and sorcery. God with man does not mingle: but the spiritual is the means of all society and converse of men with gods and of gods with men, whether waking or asleep. Whosoever has skill in these affairs is a spiritual man to have it in other matters, as in common arts and crafts, is for the mechanical. Many and multifarious are these spirits, and one of them is Love.’“‘From what father and mother sprung?’ I asked. “‘That is rather a long story,’ she replied; ‘but still, I will tell it you. When Aphrodite was born, the gods made a great feast, and among the company was Resource the son of Cunning. And when they had banqueted there came Poverty abegging, as well she might in an hour of good cheer, and hung about the door. Now Resource, grown tipsy with nectar—for wine as yet there was none—went into the garden of Zeus, and there, overcome with heaviness, slept. Then Poverty, being of herself so resourceless, devised the scheme of having a child by Resource, and lying down by his side she conceived Love. Hence it is that Love from the beginning has been attendant and minister to Aphrodite, since he was begotten on the day of her birth, and is, moreover, by nature a lover bent on beauty since Aphrodite is beautiful. Now, as the son of Resource and Poverty, Love is in a peculiar case. First, he is ever poor, and far from tender or beautiful as most suppose him: rather is he hard and parched, shoeless and homeless; on the bare ground always he lies with no bedding, and takes his rest on doorsteps and waysides in the open air; true to his mother's nature, he ever dwells with want. But he takes after his father in scheming for all that is beautiful and good; for he is brave, strenuous and high-strung, a famous hunter, always weaving some stratagem; desirous and competent of wisdom, throughout life ensuing the truth; a master of jugglery, witchcraft, and artful speech. By birth neither immortal nor mortal, in the selfsame day he is flourishing and alive at the hour when he is abounding in resource; at another he is dying, and then reviving again by force of his father's nature: yet the resources that he gets will ever be ebbing away; so that Love is at no time either resourceless or wealthy, and furthermore, he stands midway betwixt wisdom and ignorance. The position is this: no gods ensue wisdom or desire to be made wise; such they are already; nor does anyone else that is wise ensue it. Neither do the ignorant ensue wisdom, nor desire to be made wise: in this very point is ignorance distressing, when a person who is not comely or worthy or intelligent is satisfied with himself. The man who does not feel himself defective has no desire for that whereof he feels no defect.’“‘Who then, Diotima,’ I asked, ‘are the followers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the ignorant?’ “‘Why, a child could tell by this time,’ she answered, ‘that they are the intermediate sort, and amongst these also is Love. For wisdom has to do with the fairest things, and Love is a love directed to what is fair; so that Love must needs be a friend of wisdom, and, as such, must be between wise and ignorant. This again is a result for which he has to thank his origin: for while he comes of a wise and resourceful father, his mother is unwise and resourceless. Such, my good Socrates, is the nature of this spirit. That you should have formed your other notion of Love is no surprising accident. You supposed, if I am to take your own words as evidence, that the beloved and not the lover was Love. This led you, I fancy, to hold that Love is all-beautiful. The lovable, indeed, is the truly beautiful, tender, perfect, and heaven-blest; but the lover is of a different type, in accordance with the account I have given.’“Upon this I observed: ‘Very well then, madam, you are right; but if Love is such as you describe him, of what use is he to mankind?’ “‘That is the next question, Socrates,’ she replied, ‘on which I will try to enlighten you. While Love is of such nature and origin as I have related, he is also set on beautiful things, as you say. Now, suppose some one were to ask us: In what respect is he Love of beautiful things, Socrates and Diotima? But let me put the question more clearly thus: What is the love of the lover of beautiful things?’“‘That they may be his,’ I replied.“‘But your answer craves a further query,’ she said, ‘such as this: What will he have who gets beautiful things?’“This question I declared I was quite unable now to answer offhand. “‘Well,’ she proceeded, ‘imagine that the object is changed, and the inquiry is made about the good instead of the beautiful. Come, Socrates (I shall say), what is the love of the lover of good things?’“‘That they may be his,’ I replied.“‘And what will he have who gets good things?’“‘I can make more shift to answer this,’ I said; ‘he will be happy.’ “‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the happy are happy by acquisition of good things, and we have no more need to ask for what end a man wishes to be happy, when such is his wish: the answer seems to be ultimate.’“‘Quite true,’ I said.“‘Now do you suppose this wish or this love to be common to all mankind, and that every one always wishes to have good things? Or what do you say?’“‘Even so,’ I said; ‘it is common to all.’ “‘Well then, Socrates,’ she said, ‘we do not mean that all men love, when we say that all men love the same things always; we mean that some people love and others do not?’“‘I am wondering myself,’ I replied.“‘But you should not wonder,’ she said; ‘for we have singled out a certain form of love, and applying thereto the name of the whole, we call it love; and there are other names that we commonly abuse.’“‘As, for example —————— ?’ I asked.“‘Take the following: you know that poetryCf. above, Plat. Sym. 197a. is more than a single thing. For of anything whatever that passes from not being into being the whole cause is composing or poetry; so that the productions of all arts are kinds of poetry, and their craftsmen are all poets.’“‘That is true.’“‘But still, as you are aware,’ said she, ‘they are not called poets: they have other names, while a single section disparted from the whole of poetry—merely the business of music and meters—is entitled with the name of the whole. This and no more is called poetry; those only who possess this branch of the art are poets.’“‘Quite true,’ I said.“‘Well, it is just the same with love. Generically, indeed, it is all that desire of good things and of being happyCf. above, Plat. Sym. 204e-205a.—Love most mighty and all-beguiling. Yet, whereas those who resort to him in various other ways—in money-making, an inclination to sports, or philosophy—are not described either as loving or as lovers, all those who pursue him seriously in one of his several forms obtain, as loving and as lovers, the name of the whole.’“‘I fancy you are right,’ I said. “‘And certainly there runs a story,’ she continued, ‘that all who go seeking their other halfA “prophetic” allusion to Aristophanes' speech, Plat. Sym. 192ff. are in love; though by my account love is neither for half nor for whole, unless, of course, my dear sir, this happens to be something good. For men are prepared to have their own feet and hands cut off if they feel these belongings to be harmful. The fact is, I suppose, that each person does not cherish his belongings except where a man calls the good his own property and the bad another's; since what men love is simply and solely the good. Or is your view otherwise?’“‘Faith, no,’ I said.“‘Then we may state unreservedly that men love the good?’“‘Yes,’ I said.“‘Well now, must we not extend it to this, that they love the good to be theirs?’“‘We must.’“‘And do they love it to be not merely theirs but theirs always?’“‘Include that also.’“‘Briefly then,’ said she, ‘love loves the good to be one's own for ever.’“‘That is the very truth,’ I said. “‘Now if love is always for this,’ she proceeded, ‘what is the method of those who pursue it, and what is the behavior whose eagerness and straining are to be termed love? What actually is this effort? Can you tell me?’“‘Ah, Diotima,’ I said; ‘in that case I should hardly be admiring you and your wisdom, and sitting at your feet to be enlightened on just these questions.’“‘Well, I will tell you,’ said she; ‘it is begetting on a beautiful thing by means of both the body and the soul.’“‘It wants some divination to make out what you mean,’ I said; ‘I do not understand.’ “‘Let me put it more clearly,’ she said. ‘All men are pregnant, Socrates, both in body and in soul: on reaching a certain age our nature yearns to beget. This it cannot do upon an ugly person, but only on the beautiful: the conjunction of man and woman is a begetting for both.The argument requires the application of “begetting” and other such terms indifferently to either sex. It is a divine affair, this engendering and bringing to birth, an immortal element in the creature that is mortal; and it cannot occur in the discordant. The ugly is discordant with whatever is divine, whereas the beautiful is accordant. Thus Beauty presides over birth as Fate and Lady of Travail; and hence it is that when the pregnant approaches the beautiful it becomes not only gracious but so exhilarate, that it flows over with begetting and bringing forth; though when it meets the ugly it coils itself close in a sullen dismay: rebuffed and repressed, it brings not forth, but goes in labor with the burden of its young. Therefore when a person is big and teeming-ripe he feels himself in a sore flutter for the beautiful, because its possessor can relieve him of his heavy pangs. For you are wrong, Socrates, in supposing that love is of the beautiful.’“‘What then is it?’“‘It is of engendering and begetting upon the beautiful.’“‘Be it so,’ I said.“‘To be sure it is,’ she went on; ‘and how of engendering? Because this is something ever-existent and immortal in our mortal life. From what has been admitted, we needs must yearn for immortality no less than for good, since love loves good to be one's own for ever. And hence it necessarily follows that love is of immortality.’“All this instruction did I get from her at various times when she discoursed of love-matters; and one time she asked me, ‘What do you suppose, Socrates, to be the cause of this love and desire? For you must have observed the strange state into which all the animals are thrown, whether going on earth or winging the air, when they desire to beget: they are all sick and amorously disposed, first to have union one with another, and next to find food for the new-born; in whose behalf they are ready to fight hard battles, even the weakest against the strongest, and to sacrifice their lives; to be racked with starvation themselves if they can but nurture their young, and be put to any sort of shift. As for men,’ said she, ‘one might suppose they do these things on the promptings of reason; but what is the cause of this amorous condition in the animals? Can you tell me?’“Once more I replied that I did not know; so she proceeded: ‘How do you design ever to become a master of love-matters, if you can form no notion of this?’“‘Why, it is just for this, I tell you, Diotima—as I stated a moment ago—that I have come to see you, because I noted my need of an instructor. Come, tell me the cause of these effects as well as of the others that have relation to love.’“‘Well then,’ she said, ‘if you believe that love is by nature bent on what we have repeatedly admitted, you may cease to wonder. For here, too, on the same principle as before, the mortal nature ever seeks, as best it can, to be immortal. In one way only can it succeed, and that is by generation; since so it can always leave behind it a new creature in place of the old. It is only for a while that each live thing can be described as alive and the same, as a man is said to be the same person from childhood until he is advanced in years: yet though he is called the same he does not at any time possess the same properties; he is continually becoming a new person, and there are things also which he loses, as appears by his hair, his flesh, his bones, and his blood and body altogether. And observe that not only in his body but in his soul besides we find none of his manners or habits, his opinions, desires, pleasures, pains or fears, ever abiding the same in his particular self; some things grow in him, while others perish. And here is a yet stranger fact: with regard to the possessions of knowledge, not merely do some of them grow and others perish in us, so that neither in what we know are we ever the same persons; but a like fate attends each single sort of knowledge. What we call “conning” implies that our knowledge is departing; since forgetfulness is an egress of knowledge, while conning substitutes a fresh one in place of that which departs, and so preserves our knowledge enough to make it seem the same. Every mortal thing is preserved in this way; not by keeping it exactly the same for ever, like the divine, but by replacing what goes off or is antiquated with something fresh, in the semblance of the original. Through this device, Socrates, a mortal thing partakes of immortality, both in its body and in all other respects; by no other means can it be done. So do not wonder if everything naturally values its own offshoot; since all are beset by this eagerness and this love with a view to immortality.’“On hearing this argument I wondered, and said: ‘Really, can this in truth be so, most wise Diotima?’“Whereat she, like the professors in their glory: ‘Be certain of it, Socrates; only glance at the ambition of the men around you, and you will have to wonder at the unreasonableness of what I have told you, unless you are careful to consider how singularly they are affected with the love of winning a name, “and laying up fame immortal for all time to come.”Diotima, like Agathon, breaks into verse of her own composing. For this, even more than for their children, they are ready to run all risks, to expend money, perform any kind of task, and sacrifice their lives. Do you suppose,’ she asked, ‘that Alcestis would have died for Admetus, or Achilles have sought death on the corpse of Patroclus, or your own CodrusA legendary king of Athens who exposed his life because an oracle had said that the Dorian invaders would conquer if they did not slay the Athenian king. have welcomed it to save the children of his queen, if they had not expected to win “a deathless memory for valor,” which now we keep? Of course not. I hold it is for immortal distinction and for such illustrious renown as this that they all do all they can, and so much the more in proportion to their excellence. They are in love with what is immortal. Now those who are teeming in body betake them rather to women, and are amorous on this wise: by getting children they acquire an immortality, a memorial, and a state of bliss, which in their imagining they “for all succeeding time procure.” But pregnancy of soul—for there are persons,’ she declared, ‘who in their souls still more than in their bodies conceive those things which are proper for soul to conceive and bring forth; and what are those things? Prudence, and virtue in general; and of these the begetters are all the poets and those craftsmen who are styled “inventors.” Now by far the highest and fairest part of prudence is that which concerns the regulation of cities and habitations; it is called sobriety and justice. So when a man's soul is so far divine that it is made pregnant with these from his youth, and on attaining manhood immediately desires to bring forth and beget, he too, I imagine, goes about seeking the beautiful object whereon he may do his begetting, since he will never beget upon the ugly. Hence it is the beautiful rather than the ugly bodies that he welcomes in his pregnancy, and if he chances also on a soul that is fair and noble and well-endowed, he gladly cherishes the two combined in one; and straightway in addressing such a person he is resourceful in discoursing of virtue and of what should be the good man's character and what his pursuits; and so he takes in hand the other's education. For I hold that by contact with the fair one and by consorting with him he bears and brings forth his long-felt conception, because in presence or absence he remembers his fair. Equally too with him he shares the nurturing of what is begotten, so that men in this condition enjoy a far fuller community with each other than that which comes with children, and a far surer friendship, since the children of their union are fairer and more deathless. Every one would choose to have got children such as these rather than the human sort— merely from turning a glance upon Homer and Hesiod and all the other good poets, and envying the fine offspring they leave behind to procure them a glory immortally renewed in the memory of men. Or only look,’ she said, ‘at the fine children whom LycurgusThe legendary creator of Spartan laws and customs. left behind him in Lacedaemon to deliver his country and—I may almost say—the whole of Greece; while Solon is highly esteemed among you for begetting his laws; and so are diverse men in diverse other regions, whether among the Greeks or among foreign peoples, for the number of goodly deeds shown forth in them, the manifold virtues they begot. In their name has many a shrine been reared because of their fine children; whereas for the human sort never any man obtained this honor.“‘Into these love-matters even you, Socrates, might haply be initiated; but I doubt if you could approach the rites and revelations to which these, for the properly instructed, are merely the avenue. However I will speak of them,’ she said, ‘and will not stint my best endeavors; only you on your part must try your best to follow. He who would proceed rightly in this business must not merely begin from his youth to encounter beautiful bodies. In the first place, indeed, if his conductor guides him aright, he must be in love with one particular body, and engender beautiful converse therein; but next he must remark how the beauty attached to this or that body is cognate to that which is attached to any other, and that if he means to ensue beauty in form, it is gross folly not to regard as one and the same the beauty belonging to all; and so, having grasped this truth, he must make himself a lover of all beautiful bodies, and slacken the stress of his feeling for one by contemning it and counting it a trifle. But his next advance will be to set a higher value on the beauty of souls than on that of the body, so that however little the grace that may bloom in any likely soul it shall suffice him for loving and caring, and for bringing forth and soliciting such converse as will tend to the betterment of the young; and that finally he may be constrained to contemplate the beautiful as appearing in our observances and our laws, and to behold it all bound together in kinship and so estimate the body's beauty as a slight affair. From observances he should be led on to the branches of knowledge, that there also he may behold a province of beauty, and by looking thus on beauty in the mass may escape from the mean, meticulous slavery of a single instance, where he must center all his care, like a lackey, upon the beauty of a particular child or man or single observance; and turning rather towards the main ocean of the beautiful may by contemplation of this bring forth in all their splendor many fair fruits of discourse and meditation in a plenteous crop of philosophy; until with the strength and increase there acquired he descries a certain single knowledge connected with a beauty which has yet to be told. And here, I pray you,’ said she, ‘give me the very best of your attention.“‘When a man has been thus far tutored in the lore of love, passing from view to view of beautiful things, in the right and regular ascent, suddenly he will have revealed to him, as he draws to the close of his dealings in love, a wondrous vision, beautiful in its nature; and this, Socrates, is the final object of all those previous toils. First of all, it is ever-existent and neither comes to be nor perishes, neither waxes nor wanes; next, it is not beautiful in part and in part ugly, nor is it such at such a time and other at another, nor in one respect beautiful and in another ugly, nor so affected by position as to seem beautiful to some and ugly to others. Nor again will our initiate find the beautiful presented to him in the guise of a face or of hands or any other portion of the body, nor as a particular description or piece of knowledge, nor as existing somewhere in another substance, such as an animal or the earth or sky or any other thing; but existing ever in singularity of form independent by itself, while all the multitude of beautiful things partake of it in such wise that, though all of them are coming to be and perishing, it grows neither greater nor less, and is affected by nothing. So when a man by the right method of boy-loving ascends from these particulars and begins to descry that beauty, he is almost able to lay hold of the final secret. Such is the right approach or induction to love-matters. Beginning from obvious beauties he must for the sake of that highest beauty be ever climbing aloft, as on the rungs of a ladder, from one to two, and from two to all beautiful bodies; from personal beauty he proceeds to beautiful observances, from observance to beautiful learning, and from learning at last to that particular study which is concerned with the beautiful itself and that alone; so that in the end he comes to know the very essence of beauty. In that state of life above all others, my dear Socrates,’ said the Mantinean woman, ‘a man finds it truly worth while to live, as he contemplates essential beauty. This, when once beheld, will outshine your gold and your vesture, your beautiful boys and striplings, whose aspect now so astounds you and makes you and many another, at the sight and constant society of your darlings, ready to do without either food or drink if that were any way possible, and only gaze upon them and have their company. But tell me, what would happen if one of you had the fortune to look upon essential beauty entire, pure and unalloyed; not infected with the flesh and color of humanity, and ever so much more of mortal trash? What if he could behold the divine beauty itself, in its unique form? Do you call it a pitiful life for a man to lead—looking that way, observing that vision by the proper means, and having it ever with him? Do but consider,’ she said, ‘that there only will it befall him, as he sees the beautiful through that which makes it visible, to breed not illusions but true examples of virtue, since his contact is not with illusion but with truth. So when he has begotten a true virtue and has reared it up he is destined to win the friendship of Heaven; he, above all men, is immortal.’ “This, Phaedrus and you others, is what Diotima told me, and I am persuaded of it; in which persuasion I pursue my neighbors, to persuade them in turn that towards this acquisition the best helper that our human nature can hope to find is Love. Wherefore I tell you now that every man should honor Love, as I myself do honor all love-matters with especial devotion, and exhort all other men to do the same; both now and always do I glorify Love's power and valor as far as I am able. So I ask you, Phaedrus, to be so good as to consider this account as a eulogy bestowed on Love, or else to call it by any name that pleases your fancy.”After Socrates had thus spoken, there was applause from all the company except Aristophanes, who was beginning to remark on the allusion which Socrates' speech had made to his own;See Plat. Sym. 205e. when suddenly there was a knocking at the outer door, which had a noisy sound like that of revellers, and they heard notes of a flute-girl. “Go and see to it,” said Agathon to the servants; “and if it be one of our intimates, invite him in: otherwise, say we are not drinking, but just about to retire.”A few moments after, they heard the voice of Alcibiades in the forecourt, very drunken and bawling loud, to know where Agathon was, and bidding them bring him to Agathon. So he was brought into the company by the flute-girl and some others of his people supporting him: he stood at the door, crowned with a bushy wreath of ivy and violets, and wearing a great array of ribands on his head. “Good evening, sirs,” he said; “will you admit to your drinking a fellow very far gone in liquor, or shall we simply set a wreath on Agathon—which indeed is what we came for—and so away? I tell you, sir, I was hindered from getting to you yesterday; but now I am here with these ribands on my head, so that I can pull them off mine and twine them about the head of the cleverest, the handsomest, if I may speak the—see, like this!His drunken gesture interrupts what he means to say and resumes later, “If I may speak the truth Ah, you would laugh at me because I am drunk? Well, for my part, laugh as you may, I am sure I am speaking the truth. Come, tell me straight out, am I to enter on the terms stated or not? Will you take a cup with me or no?”At this they all boisterously acclaimed him, bidding him enter and take a seat, and Agathon also invited him. So he came along with the assistance of his people and while unwinding the ribands for his purpose of wreathing his friend he so held them before his eyes that he failed to notice Socrates, and actually took a seat next to Agathon, between Socrates and him: for Socrates had moved up when he caught sight of Alcibiades. So there he sat, and he saluted Agathon and began to twine his head.Then Agathon said to the servants, “Take off Alcibiades' shoes, so that he can recline here with us two.”“By all means,” said Alcibiades; “but who is our third at table?” With that he turned about and saw Socrates, and the same moment leapt up and cried, “Save us, what a surprise! Socrates here! So it was to lie in wait for me again that you were sitting there— your old trick of turning up on a sudden where least I expected you! Well, what are you after now? Tell me, I say, why you took a seat here and not by Aristophanes or some one else who is absurd and means to be? Why did you intrigue to get a seat beside the handsomest person in the room?Then Socrates said, “Agathon, do your best to protect me, for I have found my love for this fellow no trifling affair. From the time when I fell in love with him I have not had a moment's liberty either to look upon or converse with a single handsome person, but the fellow flies into a spiteful jealousy which makes him treat me in a monstrous fashion, girding at me and hardly keeping his hands to himself. So take care that he does no mischief now: pray reconcile us; or if he sets about using force, protect me, for I shudder with alarm at his amorous frenzy.”“No,” said Alcibiades; “no reconcilement for you and me. I will have my revenge on you for this another time: for the present, Agathon, give me some of your ribands, that I may also deck this person's head, this astonishing head. He shall not reproach me with having made a garland for you and then, though he conquers every one in discourse—not once in a while, like you the other day, but always—bestowing none upon him.” So saying he took some of the ribands and, after decking the head of Socrates, resumed his seat.Reclining there, he proceeded: “Now then, gentlemen, you look sober: I cannot allow this; you must drink, and fulfil our agreement. So I appoint as president of this bout, till you have had a reasonable drink—myself. Agathon, let the boy bring me as large a goblet as you have. Ah well, do not trouble,” he said; “boy, bring me that cooler there,”— for he saw it would hold a good half-gallon and more. This he got filled to the brim, and after quaffing it off himself bade them fill up for Socrates, saying, “Against Socrates, sirs, my crafty plan is as nought. However large the bumper you order him, he will quaff it all off and never get tipsy with it.”Socrates drank as soon as the boy had filled: but “What procedure is this, Alcibiades?” asked Eryximachus. “Are we to have nothing to say or sing over the cup? Are we going to drink just like any thirsty folk?”To this Alcibiades answered: “Ha, Eryximachus, ‘of noblest, soberest sire most noble son’; all hail!”“And the same to you,” said Eryximachus: “but what are we to do?”“Whatever you command, for we are bound to obey you:One learned leech is worth the multitude.Hom. Il. 11.514So prescribe what you please.”“Then listen,” said Eryximachus. “We resolved, before your arrival, that each in order from left to right should make the finest speech he could upon Love, and glorify his name. Now all of us here have spoken; so you, since you have made no speech and have drained the cup, must do your duty and speak. This done, you shall prescribe what you like for Socrates, and he for his neighbor on the right, and so on with the rest.”“Very good, Eryximachus,” said Alcibiades; “but to pit a drunken man against sober tongues is hardly fair. Besides, my gifted friend, you are surely not convinced by anything that Socrates has just told you? You must know the case is quite the contrary of what he was saying. It is he who, if I praise any god in his presence of any person other than himself, will not keep his hands off me.”“Come, enough of this,” said Socrates.“On the honor of a gentleman,” said Alcibiades, “it is no use your protesting, for I could not praise anyone else in your presence.”“Well, do that if you like,” said Eryximachus; “praise Socrates.”“You mean it?” said Alcibiades; “you think I had better, Eryximachus? Am I to set upon the fellow and have my revenge before you all?” “Here,” said Socrates; “what are you about,—to make fun of me with your praises, or what?”“I shall speak the truth; now, will you permit me?”“Ah well, so long as it is the truth, I permit you and command you to speak.”“You shall hear it this moment,” said Alcibiades; “but there is something you must do. If I say anything that is false, have the goodness to take me up short and say that there I am lying; for I will not lie if I can help it. Still, you are not to be surprised if I tell my reminiscences at haphazard; it is anything but easy for a man in my condition to give a fluent and regular enumeration of your oddities.”Alcibiades' praise of Socrates“The way I shall take, gentlemen, in my praise of Socrates, is by similitudes. Probably he will think I do this for derision; but I choose my similitude for the sake of truth, not of ridicule. For I say he is likest to the Silenus-figures that sit in the statuaries' shops; those, I mean, which our craftsmen make with pipes or flutes in their hands: when their two halves are pulled open, they are found to contain images of gods. And I further suggest that he resembles the satyr Marsyas. Now, as to your likeness, Socrates, to these in figure, I do not suppose even you yourself will dispute it; but I have next to tell you that you are like them in every other respect. You are a fleering fellow, eh? If you will not confess it, I have witnesses at hand. Are you not a piper? Why, yes, and a far more marvellous one than the satyr. His lips indeed had power to entrance mankind by means of instruments; a thing still possible today for anyone who can pipe his tunes: for the music of Olympus' flute belonged, I may tell you, to Marsyas his teacher. So that if anyone, whether a fine flute-player or paltry flute-girl, can but flute his tunes, they have no equal for exciting a ravishment, and will indicate by the divinity that is in them who are apt recipients of the deities and their sanctifications. You differ from him in one point only—that you produce the same effect with simple prose unaided by instruments. For example, when we hear any other person— quite an excellent orator, perhaps—pronouncing one of the usual discourses, no one, I venture to say, cares a jot; but so soon as we hear you, or your discourses in the mouth of another,—though such person be ever so poor a speaker, and whether the hearer be a woman or a man or a youngster—we are all astounded and entranced. As for myself, gentlemen, were it not that I might appear to be absolutely tipsy, I would have affirmed on oath all the strange effects I personally have felt from his words, and still feel even now. For when I hear him I am worse than any wild fanatic; I find my heart leaping and my tears gushing forth at the sound of his speech, and I see great numbers of other people having the same experience. When I listened to Pericles and other skilled orators I thought them eloquent, but I never felt anything like this; my spirit was not left in a tumult and had not to complain of my being in the condition of a common slave: whereas the influence of our Marsyas here has often thrown me into such a state that I thought my life not worth living on these terms. In all this, Socrates, there is nothing that you can call untrue. Even now I am still conscious that if I consented to lend him my ear, I could not resist him, but would have the same feeling again. For he compels me to admit that, sorely deficient as I am, I neglect myself while I attend to the affairs of Athens. So I withhold my ears perforce as from the Sirens, and make off as fast as I can, for fear I should go on sitting beside him till old age was upon me. And there is one experience I have in presence of this man alone, such as nobody would expect in me; and that is, to be made to feel ashamed; he alone can make me feel it. For he brings home to me that I cannot disown the duty of doing what he bids me, but that as soon as I turn from his company I fall a victim to the favors of the crowd. So I take a runaway's leave of him and flee away; when I see him again I think of those former admissions, and am ashamed. Often I could wish he had vanished from this world; yet again, should this befall, I am sure I should be more distressed than ever; so I cannot tell what to do with the fellow at all.“Such then is the effect that our satyr can work upon me and many another with his piping; but let me tell you how like he is in other respects to the figures of my comparison, and what a wondrous power he wields. I assure you, not one of you knows him; well, I shall reveal him, now that I have begun. Observe how Socrates is amorously inclined to handsome persons; with these he is always busy and enraptured. Again, he is utterly stupid and ignorant, as he affects. Is not this like a Silenus? Exactly. It is an outward casing he wears, similarly to the sculptured Silenus. But if you opened his inside, you cannot imagine how full he is, good cup-companions, of sobriety. I tell you, all the beauty a man may have is nothing to him; he despises it more than any of you can believe; nor does wealth attract him, nor any sort of honor that is the envied prize of the crowd. All these possessions he counts as nothing worth, and all of us as nothing, I assure you; he spends his whole life in chaffing and making game of his fellow-men. Whether anyone else has caught him in a serious moment and opened him, and seen the images inside, I know not; but I saw them one day, and thought them so divine and golden, so perfectly fair and wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me. And believing he had a serious affection for my youthful bloom, I supposed I had here a godsend and a rare stroke of luck, thinking myself free at any time by gratifying his desires to hear all that our Socrates knew; for I was enormously proud of my youthful charms. So with this design I dismissed the attendant whom till then I invariably brought to my meetings with Socrates, and I would go and meet him alone: I am to tell you the whole truth; you must all mark my words, and, Socrates, you shall refute me if I lie. Yes, gentlemen, I went and met him, and the two of us would be alone; and I thought he would seize the chance of talking to me as a lover does to his dear one in private, and I was glad. But nothing of the sort occurred at all: he would merely converse with me in his usual manner, and when he had spent the day with me he would leave me and go his way. After that I proposed he should go with me to the trainer's, and I trained with him, expecting to gain my point there. So he trained and wrestled with me many a time when no one was there. The same story! I got no further with the affair. Then, as I made no progress that way, I resolved to charge full tilt at the man, and not to throw up the contest once I had entered upon it: I felt I must clear up the situation. Accordingly I invited him to dine with me, for all the world like a lover scheming to ensnare his favorite. Even this he was backward to accept; however, he was eventually persuaded. The first time he came, he wanted to leave as soon as he had dined. On that occasion I was ashamed and let him go. The second time I devised a scheme: when we had dined I went on talking with him far into the night, and when he wanted to go I made a pretext of the lateness of the hour and constrained him to stay. So he sought repose on the couch next to me, on which he had been sitting at dinner, and no one was sleeping in the room but ourselves. “Now up to this point my tale could fairly be told to anybody; but from here onwards I would not have continued in your hearing were it not, in the first place, that wine, as the saying goes, whether you couple ‘children’ with it or no, is ‘truthful’;The usual proverb of the truthfulness of wine (OI)=NOS KAI\ A)LH/QEIA) was sometimes extended to OI)=NOS KAI\ PAI=DES A)LHQEI=S “Truthful are wine and children.” and in the second, I consider it dishonest, when I have started on the praise of Socrates, to hide his deed of lofty disdain. Besides, I share the plight of the man who was bitten by the snake: you know it is related of one in such a plight that he refused to describe his sensations to any but persons who had been bitten themselves, since they alone would understand him and stand up for him if he should give way to wild words and actions in his agony. Now I have been bitten by a more painful creature, in the most painful way that one can be bitten: in my heart, or my soul, or whatever one is to call it, I am stricken and stung by his philosophic discourses, which adhere more fiercely than any adder when once they lay hold of a young and not ungifted soul, and force it to do or say whatever they will; I have only to look around me, and there is a Phaedrus, an Agathon, an Eryximachus, a Pausanias, an Aristodemus, and an Aristophanes—I need not mention Socrates himself—and all the rest of them; every one of you has had his share of philosophic frenzy and transport, so all of you shall hear. You shall stand up alike for what then was done and for what now is spoken. But the domestics, and all else profane and clownish, must clap the heaviest of doors upon their ears.“Well, gentlemen, when the lamp had been put out and the servants had withdrawn, I determined not to mince matters with him, but to speak out freely what I intended. So I shook him and said, ‘Socrates, are you asleep?’“‘Why, no,’ he replied.“‘Let me tell you what I have decided.’“‘What is the matter?’ he asked.“‘I consider,’ I replied, ‘that you are the only worthy lover I have had, and it looks to me as if you were shy of mentioning it to me. My position is this: I count it sheer folly not to gratify you in this as in any other need you may have of either my property or that of my friends. To me nothing is more important than the attainment of the highest possible excellence, and in this aim I believe I can find no abler ally than you. So I should feel a far worse shame before sensible people for not gratifying such a friend than I should before the senseless multitude for gratifying him.’“When he heard this, he put on that innocent air which habit has made so characteristic of him, and remarked: ‘My dear Alcibiades, I daresay you are not really a dolt, if what you say of me is the actual truth, and there is a certain power in me that could help you to be better; for then what a stupendous beauty you must see in me, vastly superior to your comeliness! And if on espying this you are trying for a mutual exchange of beauty for beauty, it is no slight advantage you are counting on—you are trying to get genuine in return for reputed beauties, and in fact are designing to fetch off the old bargain of “gold for bronze”.Hom. Il. 6.236—Glaucus foolishly exchanging his golden armour for the bronze armour of Diomedes. But be more wary, my gifted friend: you may be deceived and I may be worthless. Remember, the intellectual sight begins to be keen when the visual is entering on its wane; but you are a long way yet from that time.’“To this I answered: You have heard what I had to say; not a word differed from the feeling in my mind: it is for you now to consider what you judge to be best for you and me.’“Ah, there you speak to some purpose,’ he said: ‘for in the days that are to come we shall consider and do what appears to be best for the two of us in this and our other affairs.’“Well, after I had exchanged these words with him and, as it were, let fly my shafts, I fancied he felt the wound: so up I got, and without suffering the man to say a word more I wrapped my own coat about him—it was winter-time; drew myself under his cloak, so; wound my arms about this truly spiritual and miraculous creature; and lay thus all the night long. Here too, Socrates, you are unable to give me the lie. When I had done all this, he showed such superiority and contempt, laughing my youthful charms to scorn, and flouting the very thing on which I prided myself, gentlemen of the jury—for you are here to try Socrates for his lofty disdain: you may be sure, by gods—and goddesses—that when I arose I had in no more particular sense slept a night with Socrates than if it had been with my father or my elder brother.“After that, you can imagine what a state of mind I was in, feeling myself affronted, yet marvelling at the sobriety and integrity of his nature: for I had lighted on a man such as I never would have dreamt of meeting—so sensible and so resolute. Hence I could find neither a reason for being angry and depriving myself of his society nor a ready means of enticing him. For I was well aware that he was far more proof against money on every side than Ajax against a spear;Referring to the sevenfold shield of Ajax; cf. Pind. I. 5.45; Soph. Af. 576. and in what I thought was my sole means of catching him he had eluded me. So I was at a loss, and wandered about in the most abject thraldom to this man that ever was known. Now all this, you know, had already happened to me when we later went on a campaign together to Potidaea;432 B.C. and there we were messmates. Well, first of all, he surpassed not me only but every one else in bearing hardships; whenever we were cut off in some place and were compelled, as often in campaigns, to go without food, the rest of us were nowhere in point of endurance. Then again, when we had plenty of good cheer, he alone could enjoy it to the full, and though unwilling to drink, when once overruled he used to beat us all; and, most surprising of all, no man has ever yet seen Socrates drunk. Of this power I expect we shall have a good test in a moment. But it was in his endurance of winter— in those parts the winters are awful—that I remember, among his many marvellous feats, how once there came a frost about as awful as can be: we all preferred not to stir abroad, or if any of us did, we wrapped ourselves up with prodigious care, and after putting on our shoes we muffled up our feet with felt and little fleeces. But he walked out in that weather, clad in just such a coat as he was always wont to wear, and he made his way more easily over the ice unshod than the rest of us did in our shoes. The soldiers looked askance at him, thinking that he despised them. “So much for that:but next, the valiant deed our strong-souled hero daredHom. Od. 4.242on service there one day, is well worth hearing. Immersed in some problem at dawn, he stood in the same spot considering it; and when he found it a tough one, he would not give it up but stood there trying. The time drew on to midday, and the men began to notice him, and said to one another in wonder: ‘Socrates has been standing there in a study ever since dawn!’ The end of it was that in the evening some of the Ionians after they had supped— this time it was summer—brought out their mattresses and rugs and took their sleep in the cool; thus they waited to see if he would go on standing all night too. He stood till dawn came and the sun rose; then walked away, after offering a prayer to the Sun.“Then, if you care to hear of him in battle—for there also he must have his due—on the day of the fight in which I gained my prize for valor from our commanders, it was he, out of the whole army, who saved my life: I was wounded, and he would not forsake me, but helped me to save both my armor and myself. I lost no time, Socrates, in urging the generals to award the prize for valor to you; and here I think you will neither rebuke me nor give me the lie. For when the generals, out of regard for my consequence, were inclined to award the prize to me, you outdid them in urging that I should have it rather than you. And further let me tell you, gentlemen, what a notable figure he made when the army was retiring in flight from DeliumThe Athenians were defeated by the Thebans, 424 B.C.: cf. Thuc. 4. 76 ff.: I happened to be there on horseback, while he marched under arms. The troops were in utter disorder, and he was retreating along with Laches, when I chanced to come up with them and, as soon as I saw them, passed them the word to have no fear, saying I would not abandon them. Here, indeed, I had an even finer view of Socrates than at Potidaea—for personally I had less reason for alarm, as I was mounted; and I noticed, first, how far he outdid Laches in collectedness, and next I felt—to use a phrase of yours, Aristophanes—how there he stepped along, as his wont is in our streets, “strutting like a proud marsh-goose, with ever a side-long glance,”Aristoph. Clouds 362 turning a calm sidelong look on friend and foe alike, and convincing anyone even from afar that whoever cares to touch this person will find he can put up a stout enough defence. The result was that both he and his comrade got away unscathed: for, as a rule, people will not lay a finger on those who show this disposition in war; it is men flying in headlong rout that they pursue.“There are many more quite wonderful things that one could find to praise in Socrates: but although there would probably be as much to say about any other one of his habits, I select his unlikeness to anybody else, whether in the ancient or in the modern world, as calling for our greatest wonder. You may take the character of Achilles and see his parallel in Brasidas or others; you may couple Nestor, Antenor, or others I might mention, with Pericles; and in the same order you may liken most great men; but with the odd qualities of this person, both in himself and in his conversation, you would not come anywhere near finding a comparison if you searched either among men of our day or among those of the past, unless perhaps you borrowed my words and matched him, not with any human being, but with the Silenuses and satyrs, in his person and his speech.“For there is a point I omitted when I began—how his talk most of all resembles the Silenuses that are made to open. If you chose to listen to Socrates' discourses you would feel them at first to be quite ridiculous; on the outside they are clothed with such absurd words and phrases—all, of course, the gift of a mocking satyr. His talk is of pack-asses, smiths, cobblers, and tanners, and he seems always to be using the same terms for the same things; so that anyone inexpert and thoughtless might laugh his speeches to scorn. But when these are opened, and you obtain a fresh view of them by getting inside, first of all you will discover that they are the only speeches which have any sense in them; and secondly, that none are so divine, so rich in images of virtue, so largely—nay, so completely—intent on all things proper for the study of such as would attain both grace and worth.“This, gentlemen, is the praise I give to Socrates: at the same time, I have seasoned it with a little fault-finding, and have told you his rude behavior towards me. However, I am not the only person he has treated thus: there are Charmides, son of Glaucon, Euthydemus, son of Diocles, and any number of others who have found his way of loving so deceitful that he might rather be their favorite than their lover. I tell you this, Agathon, to save you from his deceit, that by laying our sad experiences to heart you may be on your guard and escape learning by your own pain, like the loon in the adage.”Hom. Il. 17.33 R(EXQE\N DE/ TE NH/PIOS E)/GNW, “fools get their lesson from the deed done.” When Alcibiades had thus spoken, there was some laughter at his frankness, which showed him still amorously inclined to Socrates; who then remarked: “I believe you are sober, Alcibiades; else you would never have enfolded yourself so charmingly all about, trying to screen from sight your object in all this talk, nor would have put it in as a mere incident at the end. The true object of all you have said was to stir up a quarrel between me and Agathon: for you think you must keep me as your undivided lover, and Agathon as the undivided object of your love. But now you are detected: your Satyric or Silenic play-scene is all shown up. Dear Agathon, do not let the plot succeed, but take measures to prevent anyone from setting you and me at odds.” To which Agathon replied: “Do you know, Socrates, I fancy you have hit on the truth. Besides, I take his sitting down between us two as an obvious attempt to draw us apart. See, he shall not gain his point: I will come and sit by your side.”“By all means,” said Socrates; “here is a place for you beyond me.”“Good God!” said Alcibiades, “here's the fellow at me again. He has set his heart on having the better of me every way. But at least, you surprising person, do allow Agathon to sit between us.”“That cannot be,” said Socrates: “you have praised me, and so it behoves me to praise my neighbor on the right.At Plat. Sym. 214c it was only agreed that each should impose what topic he pleased upon his neighbor. Thus if Agathon sits beyond you, he must surely be praising me again, before receiving his due praises from me. So let him be, my good soul, and do not grudge the lad those praises of mine: for I am most eager to pronounce his eulogy.”“Ha, ha! Alcibiades,” said Agathon; “there can be no question of my staying here: I shall jump up and at once, if that will make Socrates praise me.”“There you are,” said Alcibiades; “just as usual: when Socrates is present, nobody else has a chance with the handsome ones. You see how resourceful he was in devising a plausible reason why our young friend should sit beside him.” So Agathon was getting up in order to seat himself by Socrates, when suddenly a great crowd of revellers arrived at the door, which they found just opened for some one who was going out. They marched straight into the party and seated themselves: the whole place was in an uproar and, losing all order, they were forced to drink a vast amount of wine. Then, as Aristodemus related, Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and some others took their leave and departed; while he himself fell asleep, and slumbered a great while, for the nights were long. He awoke towards dawn, as the cocks were crowing; and immediately he saw that all the company were either sleeping or gone, except Agathon, Aristophanes, and Socrates, who alone remained awake and were drinking out of a large vessel, from left to right; and Socrates was arguing with them. As to most of the talk, Aristodemus had no recollection, for he had missed the beginning and was also rather drowsy; but the substance of it was, he said, that Socrates was driving them to the admission that the same man could have the knowledge required for writing comedy and tragedy—that the fully skilled tragedian could be a comedian as well. While they were being driven to this, and were but feebly following it, they began to nod; first Aristophanes dropped into a slumber, and then, as day began to dawn, Agathon also. When Socrates had seen them comfortable, he rose and went away,—followed in the usual manner by my friend; on arriving at the Lyceum, he washed himself, and then spent the rest of the day in his ordinary fashion; and so, when the day was done, he went home for the evening and reposed.

Dear Phaedrus, whither away, and where do you come from?

From Lysias, Socrates, the son of Cephalus; and I am going for a walk outside the wall. For I spent a long time there with Lysias, sitting since early morning; and on the advice of your friend and mine, Acumenus, I am taking my walk on the roads; for he says they are less fatiguing than the streets.

He is right, my friend. Then Lysias, it seems,was in the city?

Yes, at Epicrates' house, the one that belonged to Morychus, near the Olympieum.

What was your conversation? But it is obvious that Lysias entertained you with his speeches.

You shall hear, if you have leisure to walk along and listen.

What? Don't you believe that I consider hearing your conversation with Lysias a greater thing even than business,Pind. Isthm 1.1as Pindar says?Pind. I. 1.1*MA=TER E)MA/, TO\ TEO/N, XRU/SASPI *QH/BA, PRA=GMA KAI\ A)SXOLI/AS U(PE/RTERON QH/SOMAI. “My mother, Thebes of the golden shield, I will consider thy interest greater even than business.”

Lead on, then.

Speak.

Indeed, Socrates, you are just the man to hear it. For the discourse about which we conversed, was in a way, a love-speech. For Lysias has represented one of the beauties being tempted, but not by a lover; this is just the clever thing about it; for he says that favors should be granted rather to the one who is not in love than to the lover.

O noble Lysias! I wish he would write that they should be granted to the poor rather than to the rich, to the old rather than to the young, and so of all the other qualities that I and most of us have; for truly his discourse would be witty and of general utility. I am so determined to hear you, that I will not leave you, even if you extend your walk to Megara, and, as Herodicus says, go to the wall and back again.I)ATRO\S H)=N KAI\ TA\ GUMNA/SIA E)/CW TEI/XOUS E)POIEI=TO, A)RXO/MENOS A)PO/ TINOS DIASTH/MATOS OU) MAKROU= A)LLA\ SUMME/TROU, A)/XRI TOU= TEI/XOUS, KAI\ A)NASTRE/FWN. Herodicus, Sch. “He was a physician and exercised outside the wall, beginning at some distance, not great but moderate, going as far as the wall and turning back.”

What are you saying, my dear Socrates? Do you suppose that I, who am a mere ordinary man, can tell from memory, in a way that is worthy of Lysias, what he, the cleverest writer of our day, composed at his leisure and took a long time for? Far from it; and yet I would rather have that ability than a good sum of money.

O Phaedrus! If I don't know Phaedrus, I have forgotten myself. But since neither of these things is true, I know very well that when listening to Lysias, he did not hear once only, but often urged him to repeat; and he gladly obeyed. Yet even that was not enough for Phaedrus, but at last he borrowed the book and read what he especially wished, and doing this he sat from early morning. Then, when he grew tired, he went for a walk, with the speech, as I believe, by the Dog, learned by heart, unless it was very long. And he was going outside the wall to practice it. And meeting the man who is sick with the love of discourse, he was glad when he saw him, because he would have someone to share his revel, and told him to lead on. But when the lover of discourse asked him to speak, he feigned coyness, as if he did not yearn to speak; at last, however, even if no one would listen willingly, he was bound to speak whether or no. So, Phaedrus, ask him to do now what he will presently do anyway.

Truly it is best for me to speak as I may; since it is clear that you will not let me go until I speak somehow or other.

You have a very correct idea about me.

Then this is what I will do. Really, Socrates, I have not at all learned the words by heart; but I will repeat the general sense of the whole, the points in which he said the lover was superior to the non-lover, giving them in summary, one after the other, beginning with the first.

Yes, my dear, when you have first shown me what you have in your left hand, under your cloak. For I suspect you have the actual discourse. And if that is the case, believe this of me, that I am very fond of you, but when Lysias is here I have not the slightest intention of lending you my ears to practice on. Come now, show it.

Stop. You have robbed me of the hope I had of practicing on you. But where shall we sit and read?

Let us turn aside here and go along the Ilissus; then we can sit down quietly wherever we please.

I am fortunate, it seems, in being barefoot; you are so always. It is easiest then for us to go along the brook with our feet in the water, and it is not unpleasant, especially at this time of the year and the day.

Lead on then, and look out for a good place where we may sit.

Do you see that very tall plane tree?

What of it?

There is shade there and a moderate breeze and grass to sit on, or, if we like, to lie down on.

Lead the way.

Tell me, Socrates, is it not from some place along here by the Ilissus that Boreas is said to have carried off Oreithyia?

Yes, that is the story.

Well, is it from here? The streamlet looks very pretty and pure and clear and fit for girls to play by.

No, the place is about two or three furlongs farther down, where you cross over to the precinct of Agra; and there is an altar of Boreas somewhere thereabouts.

I have never noticed it. But, for Heaven's sake, Socrates, tell me; do you believe this tale is true?

If I disbelieved, as the wise men do, I should not be extraordinary; then I might give a rational explanation, that a blast of Boreas, the north wind, pushed her off the neighboring rocks as she was playing with Pharmacea, and that when she had died in this manner she was said to have been carried off by Boreas.The Mss. insert hereH)\ E)C *)AREI/OU PA/GOU: LE/GETAI GA\R AU)= KAI\ OU(=TOS O( LO/GOS, W(S E)KEI=QEN A)LL' OU)K E)NQE/NDE H(RPA/SQH, “or from the Areopagus, for this story is also told, that she was carried off from there and not from here.” Schanz follows Bast and many editors in rejecting this as a gloss. But I, Phaedrus, think such explanations are very pretty in general, but are the inventions of a very clever and laborious and not altogether enviable man, for no other reason than because after this he must explain the forms of the Centaurs, and then that of the Chimaera, and there presses in upon him a whole crowd of such creatures, Gorgons and Pegas, and multitudes of strange, inconceivable, portentous natures. If anyone disbelieves in these, and with a rustic sort of wisdom, undertakes to explain each in accordance with probability, he will need a great deal of leisure. But I have no leisure for them at all; and the reason, my friend, is this: I am not yet able, as the Delphic inscription has it, to know myself; so it seems to me ridiculous, when I do not yet know that, to investigate irrelevant things. And so I dismiss these matters and accepting the customary belief about them, as I was saying just now, I investigate not these things, but myself, to know whether I am a monster more complicated and more furious than Typhon or a gentler and simpler creature, to whom a divine and quiet lot is given by nature. But, my friend, while we were talking, is not this the tree to which you were leading us?

Yes, this is it.

By Hera, it is a charming resting place. For this plane tree is very spreading and lofty, and the tall and shady willow is very beautiful, and it is in full bloom, so as to make the place most fragrant; then, too, the spring is very pretty as it flows under the plane tree, and its water is very cool, to judge by my foot. And it seems to be a sacred place of some nymphs and of Achelous, judging by the figurines and statues. Then again, if you please, how lovely and perfectly charming the breeziness of the place is! and it resounds with the shrill summer music of the chorus of cicadas. But the most delightful thing of all is the grass, as it grows on the gentle slope, thick enough to be just right when you lay your head on it. So you have guided the stranger most excellently, dear Phaedrus.

You are an amazing and most remarkable person. For you really do seem exactly like a stranger who is being guided about, and not like a native. You don't go away from the city out over the border, and it seems to me you don't go outside the walls at all.

Forgive me, my dear friend. You see, I am fond of learning. Now the country places and the trees won't teach me anything, and the people in the city do. But you seem to have found the charm to bring me out. For as people lead hungry animals by shaking in front of them a branch of leaves or some fruit, just so, I think, you, by holding before me discourses in books, will lead me all over Attica and wherever else you please. So now that I have come here, I intend to lie down, and do you choose the position in which you think you can read most easily, and read.

Hear then. You know what my condition is, and you have heard how I think it is to our advantage to arrange these matters. And I claim that I ought not to be refused what I ask because I am not your lover. For lovers repent of the kindnesses they have done when their passion ceases; but there is no time when non-lovers naturally repent. For they do kindnesses to the best of their ability, not under compulsion, but of their free will, according to their view of their own best interest. And besides, lovers consider the injury they have done to their own concerns on account of their love, and the benefits they have conferred, and they add the trouble they have had, and so they think they have long ago made sufficient return to the beloved; but non-lovers cannot ever neglect of their own affairs because of their condition, nor can they take account of the pains they have been at in the past, nor lay any blame for quarrels with their relatives; and so, since all these evils are removed, there is nothing left for them but to do eagerly what they think will please the beloved. And besides, if lovers ought to be highly esteemed because they say they have the greatest love for the objects of their passion, since both by word and deed they are ready to make themselves hated by others to please the beloved, it is easy to see that, if what they say is true, whenever they fall in love afterwards, they will care for the new love more than for the old and will certainly injure the old love, if that pleases the new. And how can one reasonably entrust matters of such importance to one who is afflicted with a disease such that no one of any experience would even try to cure it? For they themselves confess that they are insane, rather than in their right mind, and that they know they are foolish, but cannot control themselves; and so, how could they, when they have come to their senses, think those acts were good which they determined upon when in such a condition? And if you were to choose the best from among your lovers, your choice would be limited to a few; whereas it would be made from a great number, if you chose the most congenial from non-lovers, so that you would have a better chance, in choosing among many, of finding the one most worthy of your affection. Now if you are afraid of public opinion, and fear that if people find out your love affair you will be disgraced, consider that lovers, believing that others would be as envious of them as they are of others, are likely to be excited by possession and in their pride to show everybody that they have not toiled in vain; but the non-lovers, since they have control of their feelings, are likely to choose what is really best, rather than to court the opinion of mankind. Moreover, many are sure to notice and see the lovers going about with their beloved ones and making that their chief business, and so, when they are seen talking with each other, people think they are met in connection with some love-matter either past or future; but no one ever thinks of finding fault with non-lovers because they meet, since everyone knows that one must converse with somebody, either because of friendship or because it is pleasant for some other reason. And then, too, if you are frightened by the thought that it is hard for friendship to last, and that under other circumstances any quarrel would be an equal misfortune to both, but that when you have surrendered what you prize most highly you would be the chief sufferer, it would be reasonable for you to be more afraid of the lovers; for they are pained by many things and they think everything that happens is done for the sake of hurting them. Therefore they prevent their loves from associating with other men, for they fear the wealthy, lest their money give them an advantage, and the educated, lest they prove superior in intellect; and they are on their guard against the influence of everyone who possesses any other good thing. If now they persuade you to incur the dislike of all these, they involve you in a dearth of friends, and if you consider your own interest and are more sensible than they, you will have to quarrel with them. But those who are not in love, but who have gained the satisfaction of their desires because of their merit, would not be jealous of those who associated with you, but would hate those who did not wish to do so, thinking that you are slighted by these last and benefited by the former, so that there is much more likelihood that they will gain friendship than enmity from their love-affair with you. And then, too, many lovers are moved by physical passion before they know the character or have become acquainted with the connections of the beloved, so that it is uncertain whether they will wish to be your friends after their passion has ceased. But in the case of those who are not in love, who were your friends before entering into the closer relation, the favors received are not likely to make the friendship less, but will remain as pledges of future joys. And then, too, it will be better for your character to yield to me than to a lover. For lovers praise your words and acts beyond due measure, partly through fear of incurring your displeasure, and partly because their own judgment is obscured by their passion. For such are the exhibitions of the power of Love: he makes the unsuccessful lovers think that things are grievous which cause no pain to others, and he compels the successful to praise what ought not to give pleasure; therefore those whom they love are more to be pitied than envied. But if you yield to me, I shall consort with you, not with a view to present pleasure only, but to future advantage also, not being overcome by passion but in full control of myself, and not taking up violent enmity because of small matters, but slowly gathering little anger when the transgressions are great, forgiving involuntary wrongs and trying to prevent intentional ones; for these are the proofs of a friendship that will endure for a long time. But if you have a notion that friendship cannot be firm, unless one is in love, you should bear in mind that in that case we should not have great affection for sons or for fathers and mothers, nor should we possess faithful friends who have been gained not through passion but through associations of a different kind. Besides, if you ought to grant favors to those who ask for them most eagerly, you ought in other matters also to confer benefits, not on the best, but on the most needy; for they will be most grateful, since they are relieved of the greatest ills. And then, too, at private entertainments you ought not to invite your friends, but beggars and those who need a meal; for they will love you and attend you and come to your doors and be most pleased and grateful, and will call down many blessings upon your head. Perhaps, however, you ought not to grant favors to those who beg for them, but to those who are most able to repay you; and not to those who ask merely, but to the most deserving; and not to those who will enjoy your youthful beauty, but to those who will share their good things with you when you are older; and not to those who, when they have succeeded, will boast to others of their success, but to those who will modestly keep it a secret from all; and not to those who will be enamored for a little while, but to those who will be your friends for life; and not to those who will seek a pretext for a quarrel when their passion has died out, but to those who will show their own merit when your youth is passed. Do you, then, remember what I have said, and bear this also in mind, that lovers are admonished by their friends, who think their way of life is bad, but no relative ever blamed a non-lover for bad management of his own interests on account of that condition. Perhaps you may ask me if I advise you to grant favors to all non-lovers. But I think the lover would not urge you to be so disposed toward all lovers either; for the favor, if scattered broadcast, is not so highly prized by the rational recipient, nor can you, if you wish, keep your relations with one hidden from the rest. But from love no harm ought to come, but benefit to both parties. Now I think I have said enough. But if you feel any lack, or think anything has been omitted, ask questions. What do you think of the discourse, Socrates? Is it not wonderful, especially in diction?

More than that, it is miraculous, my friend; I am quite overcome by it. And this is due to you, Phaedrus, because as I looked at you, I saw that you were delighted by the speech as you read. So, thinking that you know more than I about such matters, I followed in your train and joined you in the divine frenzy.

Indeed! So you see fit to make fun of it?

Do I seem to you to be joking and not to be in earnest?

Do not jest, Socrates, but, in the name of Zeus, the god of friendship, tell me truly, do you think any other of the Greeks could speak better or more copiously than this on the same subject?

What? Are you and I to praise the discourse because the author has said what he ought, and not merely because all the expressions are clear and well rounded and finely turned? For if that is expected, I must grant it for your sake, since, because of my stupidity, I did not notice it. I was attending only to the rhetorical manner, and I thought even Lysias himself would not think that satisfactory. It seemed to me, Phaedrus, unless you disagree, that he said the same thing two or three times, as if he did not find it easy to say many things about one subject, or perhaps he did not care about such a detail; and he appeared to me in youthful fashion to be exhibiting his ability to say the same thing in two different ways and in both ways excellently.

Nonsense, Socrates! Why that is the especial merit of the discourse. He has omitted none of the points that belong to the subject, so that nobody could ever speak about it more exhaustively or worthily than he has done.

There I must cease to agree with you; for the wise men and women of old, who have spoken and written about these matters, will rise up to confute me, if, to please you, I assent.

Who are they? and where have you heard anything better than this?

I cannot say, just at this moment; but I certainly must have heard something, either from the lovely Sappho or the wise Anacreon, or perhaps from some prose writers. What ground have I for saying so? Why, my dear friend, I feel that my own bosom is full, and that I could make another speech, different from this and quite as good. Now I am conscious of my own ignorance, and I know very well that I have never invented these things myself, so the only alternative is that I have been filled through the ears, like a pitcher, from the well springs of another; but, again because of my stupidity, I have forgotten how and from whom I heard it.

Most noble Socrates, that is splendid! Don't tell, even if I beg you, how or from whom you heard it; only do as you say; promise to make another speech better than that in the book and no shorter and quite different. Then I promise, like the nine archons, to set up at Delphi a statue as large as life, not only of myself, but of you also.

You are a darling and truly golden, Phaedrus, if you think I mean that Lysias has failed in every respect and that I can compose a discourse containing nothing that he has said. That, I fancy, could not happen even to the worst writer. For example, to take the subject of his speech, who do you suppose, in arguing that the non-lover ought to be more favored than the lover, could omit praise of the non-lover's calm sense and blame of the lover's unreason, which are inevitable arguments, and then say something else instead? No, such arguments, I think, must be allowed and excused; and in these the arrangement, not the invention, is to be praised; but in the case of arguments which are not inevitable and are hard to discover, the invention deserves praise as well as the arrangement.

I concede your point, for I think what you say is reasonable, So I will make this concession: I will allow you to begin with the premise that the lover is more distraught than the non-lover; and if you speak on the remaining points more copiously and better than Lysias, without saying the same things, your statue of beaten metal shall stand at Olympia beside the offering of the Cypselids.

Have you taken my jest in earnest, Phaedrus, because, to tease you, I laid hands on your beloved, and do you really suppose I am going to try to surpass the rhetoric of Lysias and make a speech more ingenious than his?

Now, my friend, you have given me a fair hold; for you certainly must speak as best you can, lest we be compelled to resort to the comic “you're another”; be careful and do not force me to say “O Socrates, if I don't know Socrates, I have forgotten myself,” and “he yearned to speak, but feigned coyness.” Just make up your mind that we are not going away from here until you speak out what you said you had in your breast. We are alone in a solitary spot, and I am stronger and younger than you; so, under these circumstances, take my meaning, and speak voluntarily, rather than under compulsion.

But, my dear Phaedrus, I shall make myself ridiculous if I, a mere amateur, try without preparation to speak on the same subject in competition with a master of his art.

Now listen to me. Stop trying to fool me; for I can say something which will force you to speak.

Then pray don't say it.

Yes, but I will. And my saying shall be an oath. I swear to you by— by what god? By this plane tree? I take my solemn oath that unless you produce the discourse in the very presence of this plane tree, I will never read you another or tell you of another.

Oh! Oh! You wretch! How well you found out how to make a lover of discourse do your will!

Then why do you try to get out of it?

I won't any more, since you have taken this oath; for how could I give up such pleasures?

Speak then.

Do you know what I'm going to do?

About what?

I'm going to keep my head wrapped up while I talk, that I may get through my discourse as quickly as possible and that I may not look at you and become embarrassed.

Only speak, and in other matters suit yourself.

Come then, O tuneful Muses, whether ye receive this name from the quality of your song or from the musical race of the Ligyans, grant me your aid in the tale this most excellent man compels me to relate, that his friend whom he has hitherto considered wise, may seem to him wiser still. Now there was once upon a time a boy, or rather a stripling, of great beauty: and he had many lovers. And among these was one of peculiar craftiness, who was as much in love with the boy as anyone, but had made him believe that he was not in love; and once in wooing him, he tried to persuade him of this very thing, that favors ought to be granted rather to the non-lover than to the lover; and his words were as follows:— There is only one way, dear boy, for those to begin who are to take counsel wisely about anything. One must know what the counsel is about, or it is sure to be utterly futile, but most people are ignorant of the fact that they do not know the nature of things. So, supposing that they do know it, they come to no agreement in the beginning of their enquiry, and as they go on they reach the natural result,—they agree neither with themselves nor with each other. Now you and I must not fall into the error which we condemn in others, but, since we are to discuss the question, whether the lover or the non-lover is to be preferred let us first agree on a definition of love, its nature and its power, and then, keeping this definition in view and making constant reference to it, let us enquire whether love brings advantage or harm. Now everyone sees that love is a desire; and we know too that non-lovers also desire the beautiful. How then are we to distinguish the lover from the non-lover? We must observe that in each one of us there are two ruling and leading principles, which we follow whithersoever they lead; one is the innate desire for pleasures, the other an acquired opinion which strives for the best. These two sometimes agree within us and are sometimes in strife; and sometimes one, and sometimes the other has the greater power. Now when opinion leads through reason toward the best and is more powerful, its power is called self-restraint, but when desire irrationally drags us toward pleasures and rules within us, its rule is called excess. Now excess has many names, for it has many members and many forms; and whichever of these forms is most marked gives its own name, neither beautiful nor honorable, to him who possesses it. For example, if the desire for food prevails over the higher reason and the other desires, it is called gluttony, and he who possesses it will be called by the corresponding name of glutton, and again, if the desire for drink becomes the tyrant and leads him who possesses it toward drink, we know what he is called; and it is quite clear what fitting names of the same sort will be given when any desire akin to these acquires the rule. The reason for what I have said hitherto is pretty clear by this time, but everything is plainer when spoken than when unspoken; so I say that the desire which overcomes the rational opinion that strives toward the right, and which is led away toward the enjoyment of beauty and again is strongly forced by the desires that are kindred to itself toward personal beauty, when it gains the victory, takes its name from that very force, and is called love.This somewhat fanciful statement is based on a supposed etymological connection betweenE)/RWSandR(W/MH, E)RRWME/NWS, R(WSQEI=SA. Well, my dear Phaedrus, does it seem to you, as it does to me, that I am inspired?

Certainly, Socrates, you have an unusual fluency.

Then listen to me in silence; for truly the place seems filled with a divine presence; so do not be surprised if I often seem to be in a frenzy as my discourse progresses, for I am already almost uttering dithyrambics.

That is very true.

You are responsible for that; but hear what follows; for perhaps the attack may be averted. That, however, is in the hands of God; we must return to our boy. Well then, my dearest, what the subject is, about which we are to take counsel, has been said and defined, and now let us continue, keeping our attention fixed upon that definition, and tell what advantage or harm will naturally come from the lover or the non-lover to him who grants them his favors. He who is ruled by desire and is a slave to pleasure will inevitably desire to make his beloved as pleasing to himself as possible. Now to one who is of unsound mind everything is pleasant which does not oppose him, but everything that is better or equal is hateful. So the lover will not, if he can help it, endure a beloved who is better than himself or his equal, but always makes him weaker and inferior; but the ignorant is inferior to the wise, the coward to the brave, the poor speaker to the eloquent, the slow of wit to the clever. Such mental defects, and still greater than these, in the beloved will necessarily please the lover, if they are implanted by Nature, and if they are not, he must implant them or be deprived of his immediate enjoyment. And he is of necessity jealous and will do him great harm by keeping him from many advantageous associations, which would most tend to make a man of him, especially from that which would do most to make him wise. This is divine philosophy, and from it the lover will certainly keep his beloved away, through fear of being despised; and he will contrive to keep him ignorant of everything else and make him look to his lover for everything, so that he will be most agreeable to him and most harmful to himself. In respect to the intellect, then, a man in love is by no means a profitable guardian or associate. We must next consider how he who is forced to follow pleasure and not good will keep the body of him whose master he is, and what care he will give to it. He will plainly court a beloved who is effeminate, not virile, not brought up in the pure sunshine, but in mingled shade, unused to manly toils and the sweat of exertion, but accustomed to a delicate and unmanly mode of life, adorned with a bright complexion of artificial origin, since he has none by nature, and in general living a life such as all this indicates, which it is certainly not worth while to describe further. We can sum it all up briefly and pass on. A person with such a body, in war and in all important crises, gives courage to his enemies, and fills his friends, and even his lovers themselves, with fear. This may be passed over as self-evident, but the next question, what advantage or harm the intercourse and guardianship of the lover will bring to his beloved in the matter of his property, must be discussed. Now it is clear to everyone, and especially to the lover, that he would desire above all things to have his beloved bereft of the dearest and kindest and holiest possessions; for he would wish him to be deprived of father, mother, relatives and friends, thinking that they would hinder and censure his most sweet intercourse with him. But he will also think that one who has property in money or other possessions will be less easy to catch and when caught will be less manageable; wherefore the lover must necessarily begrudge his beloved the possession of property and rejoice at its loss. Moreover the lover would wish his beloved to be as long as possible unmarried, childless, and homeless, since he wishes to enjoy as long as possible what is pleasant to himself. Now there are also other evils, but God has mingled with most of them some temporary pleasure; so, for instance, a flatterer is a horrid creature and does great harm, yet Nature has combined with him a kind of pleasure that is not without charm, and one might find fault with a courtesan as an injurious thing, and there are many other such creatures and practices which are yet for the time being very pleasant; but a lover is not only harmful to his beloved but extremely disagreeable to live with as well. The old proverb says, “birds of a feather flock together”; that is, I suppose, equality of age leads them to similar pleasures and through similarity begets friendship; and yet even they grow tired of each other's society. Now compulsion of every kind is said to be oppressive to every one, and the lover not only is unlike his beloved, but he exercises the strongest compulsion. For he is old while his love is young, and he does not leave him day or night, if he can help it, but is driven by the sting of necessity, which urges him on, always giving him pleasure in seeing, hearing, touching, and by all his senses perceiving his beloved, so that he is glad to serve him constantly. But what consolation or what pleasure can he give the beloved? Must not this protracted intercourse bring him to the uttermost disgust, as he looks at the old, unlovely face, and other things to match, which it is not pleasant even to hear about, to say nothing of being constantly compelled to come into contact with them? And he is suspiciously guarded in all ways against everybody, and has to listen to untimely and exaggerated praises and to reproaches which are unendurable when the man is sober, and when he is in his cups and indulges in wearisome and unrestrained freedom of speech become not only unendurable but disgusting. And while he is in love he is harmful and disagreeable, but when his love has ceased he is thereafter false to him whom he formerly hardly induced to endure his wearisome companionship through the hope of future benefits by making promises with many prayers and oaths. But now that the time of payment has come he has a new ruler and governor within him, sense and reason in place of love and madness, and has become a different person; but of this his beloved knows nothing. He asks of him a return for former favors, reminding him of past sayings and doings, as if he were speaking to the same man; but the lover is ashamed to say that he has changed, and yet he cannot keep the oaths and promises he made when he was ruled by his former folly: now that he has regained his reason and come to his senses, lest by doing what he formerly did he become again what he was. He runs away from these things, and the former lover is compelled to become a defaulter. The shell has fallen with the other side up;This refers to a game played with oyster shells, in which the players ran away or pursued as the shell fell with one or the other side uppermost. and he changes his part and runs away; and the other is forced to run after him in anger and with imprecations, he who did not know at the start that he ought never to have accepted a lover who was necessarily without reason, but rather a reasonable non-lover; for otherwise he would have to surrender himself to one who was faithless, irritable, jealous, and disagreeable, harmful to his property, harmful to his physical condition, and most harmful by far to the cultivation of his soul, than which there neither is nor ever will be anything of higher importance in truth either in heaven or on earth. These things, dear boy, you must bear in mind, and you must know that the fondness of the lover is not a matter of goodwill, but of appetite which he wishes to satisfy: “Just as the wolf loves the lamb, so the lover adores his beloved.” There it is, Phaedrus! Do not listen to me any longer; let my speech end here.

But I thought you were in the middle of it, and would say as much about the non-lover as you have said about the lover, to set forth all his good points and show that he ought to be favored. So now, Socrates, why do you stop?

Did you not notice, my friend, that I am already speaking in hexameters, not mere dithyrambics, even though I am finding fault with the lover? But if I begin to praise the non-lover, what kind of hymn do you suppose I shall raise? I shall surely be possessed of the nymphs to whom you purposely exposed me. So, in a word, I say that the non-lover possesses all the advantages that are opposed to the disadvantages we found in the lover. Why make a long speech? I have said enough about both of them. And so my tale shall fare as it may; I shall cross this stream and go away before you put some further compulsion upon me.

Not yet, Socrates, till the heat is past. Don't you see that it is already almost noon? Let us stay and talk over what has been said, and then, when it is cooler, we will go away.

Phaedrus, you are simply a superhuman wonder as regards discourses! I believe no one of all those who have been born in your lifetime has produced more discourses than you, either by speaking them yourself or compelling others to do so. I except Simmias the Theban; but you are far ahead of all the rest. And now I think you have become the cause of another, spoken by me.

That is not exactly a declaration of war! But how is this, and what is the discourse?

My good friend, when I was about to cross the stream, the spirit and the sign that usually comes to me came—it always holds me back from something I am about to do—and I thought I heard a voice from it which forbade my going away before clearing my conscience, as if I had committed some sin against deity. Now I am a seer, not a very good one, but, as the bad writers say, good enough for my own purposes; so now I understand my error. How prophetic the soul is, my friend! For all along, while I was speaking my discourse, something troubled me, and as Ibycus says, I was distressed lest I be buying honor among men by sinning against the gods.Ibycus Frag. 24, Bergk.But now I have seen my error.

What do you mean?

Phaedrus, a dreadful speech it was, a dreadful speech, the one you brought with you, and the one you made me speak.

How so?

It was foolish, and somewhat impious. What could be more dreadful than that?

Nothing, if you are right about it.

Well, do you not believe that Love is the son of Aphrodite and is a god?

So it is said.

Yes, but not by Lysias, nor by your speech which was spoken by you through my mouth that you bewitched. If Love is, as indeed he is, a god or something divine, he can be nothing evil; but the two speeches just now said that he was evil. So then they sinned against Love; but their foolishness was really very funny besides, for while they were saying nothing sound or true, they put on airs as though they amounted to something, if they could cheat some mere manikins and gain honor among them. Now I, my friend, must purify myself; and for those who have sinned in matters of mythology there is an ancient purification, unknown to Homer, but known to Stesichorus. For when he was stricken with blindness for speaking ill of Helen, he was not, like Homer, ignorant of the reason, but since he was educated, he knew it and straightway he writes the poem:That saying is not true; thou didst not go within the well-oared ships, nor didst thou come to the walls of TroyStesichorus Frag. 32 Bergk and when he had written all the poem, which is called the recantation, he saw again at once. Now I will be wiser than they in just this point: before suffering any punishment for speaking ill of Love, I will try to atone by my recantation, with my head bare this time, not, as before, covered through shame.

This indeed, Socrates, is the most delightful thing you could say.

Just consider, my good Phaedrus, how shameless the two speeches were, both this of mine and the one you read out of the book. For if any man of noble and gentle nature, one who was himself in love with another of the same sort, or who had ever been loved by such a one, had happened to hear us saying that lovers take up violent enmity because of small matters and are jealously disposed and harmful to the beloved, don't you think he would imagine he was listening to people brought up among low sailors, who had never seen a generous love? Would he not refuse utterly to assent to our censure of Love?

I declare, Socrates, perhaps he would.

I therefore, because I am ashamed at the thought of this man and am afraid of Love himself, wish to wash out the brine from my ears with the water of a sweet discourse. And I advise Lysias also to write as soon as he can, that other things being equal, the lover should be favored rather than the non-lover.

Be assured that he will do so: for when you have spoken the praise of the lover, Lysias must of course be compelled by me to write another discourse on the same subject.

I believe you, so long as you are what you are.

Speak then without fear.

Where is the youth to whom I was speaking? He must hear this also, lest if he do not hear it, he accept a non-lover before we can stop him.

Here he is, always close at hand whenever you want him.

Understand then, fair youth, that the former discourse was by Phaedrus, the son of Pythocles (Eager for Fame) of Myrrhinus (Myrrhtown); but this which I shall speak is by Stesichorus, son of Euphemus (Man of pious Speech) of Himera (Town of Desire). And I must say that this saying is not true, which teaches that when a lover is at hand the non-lover should be more favored, because the lover is insane, and the other sane. For if it were a simple fact that insanity is an evil, the saying would be true; but in reality the greatest of blessings come to us through madness, when it is sent as a gift of the gods. For the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona when they have been mad have conferred many splendid benefits upon Greece both in private and in public affairs, but few or none when they have been in their right minds; and if we should speak of the Sibyl and all the others who by prophetic inspiration have foretold many things to many persons and thereby made them fortunate afterwards, anyone can see that we should speak a long time. And it is worth while to adduce also the fact that those men of old who invented names thought that madness was neither shameful nor disgraceful; otherwise they would not have connected the very word mania with the noblest of arts, that which foretells the future, by calling it the manic art. No, they gave this name thinking that mania, when it comes by gift of the gods, is a noble thing, but nowadays people call prophecy the mantic art, tastelessly inserting a T in the word. So also, when they gave a name to the investigation of the future which rational persons conduct through observation of birds and by other signs, since they furnish mind (nous) and information (historia) to human thought (oiesis) from the intellect (dianoia) they called it the oionoistic (oionoistike) art, which modern folk now call oionistic making it more high-sounding by introducing the long O. The ancients, then testify that in proportion as prophecy (mantike) is superior to augury, both in name and in fact, in the same proportion madness, which comes from god, is superior to sanity, which is of human origin. Moreover, when diseases and the greatest troubles have been visited upon certain families through some ancient guilt, madness has entered in and by oracular power has found a way of release for those in need, taking refuge in prayers and the service of the gods, and so, by purifications and sacred rites, he who has this madness is made safe for the present and the after time, and for him who is rightly possessed of madness a release from present ills is found. And a third kind of possession and madness comes from the Muses. This takes hold upon a gentle and pure soul, arouses it and inspires it to songs and other poetry, and thus by adorning countless deeds of the ancients educates later generations. But he who without the divine madness comes to the doors of the Muses, confident that he will be a good poet by art, meets with no success, and the poetry of the sane man vanishes into nothingness before that of the inspired madmen. All these noble results of inspired madness I can mention, and many more. Therefore let us not be afraid on that point, and let no one disturb and frighten us by saying that the reasonable friend should be preferred to him who is in a frenzy. Let him show in addition that love is not sent from heaven for the advantage of lover and beloved alike, and we will grant him the prize of victory. We, on our part, must prove that such madness is given by the gods for our greatest happiness; and our proof will not be believed by the merely clever, but will be accepted by the truly wise. First, then, we must learn the truth about the soul divine and human by observing how it acts and is acted upon. And the beginning of our proof is as follows: Every soul is immortal. For that which is ever moving is immortal but that which moves something else or is moved by something else, when it ceases to move, ceases to live. Only that which moves itself, since it does not leave itself, never ceases to move, and this is also the source and beginning of motion for all other things which have motion. But the beginning is ungenerated. For everything that is generated must be generated from a beginning, but the beginning is not generated from anything; for if the beginning were generated from anything, it would not be generated from a beginning. And since it is ungenerated, it must be also indestructible; for if the beginning were destroyed, it could never be generated from anything nor anything else from it, since all things must be generated from a beginning. Thus that which moves itself must be the beginning of motion. And this can be neither destroyed nor generated, otherwise all the heavens and all generation must fall in ruin and stop and never again have any source of motion or origin. But since that which is moved by itself has been seen to be immortal, one who says that this self-motion is the essence and the very idea of the soul, will not be disgraced. For every body which derives motion from without is soulless, but that which has its motion within itself has a soul, since that is the nature of the soul; but if this is true,— that that which moves itself is nothing else than the soul,—then the soul would necessarily be ungenerated and immortal. Concerning the immortality of the soul this is enough; but about its form we must speak in the following manner. To tell what it really is would be a matter for utterly superhuman and long discourse, but it is within human power to describe it briefly in a figure; let us therefore speak in that way. We will liken the soul to the composite nature of a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the horses and charioteers of the gods are all good and of good descent, but those of other races are mixed; and first the charioteer of the human soul drives a pair, and secondly one of the horses is noble and of noble breed, but the other quite the opposite in breed and character. Therefore in our case the driving is necessarily difficult and troublesome. Now we must try to tell why a living being is called mortal or immortal. Soul, considered collectively, has the care of all that which is soulless, and it traverses the whole heaven, appearing sometimes in one form and sometimes in another; now when it is perfect and fully winged, it mounts upward and governs the whole world; but the soul which has lost its wings is borne along until it gets hold of something solid, when it settles down, taking upon itself an earthly body, which seems to be self-moving, because of the power of the soul within it; and the whole, compounded of soul and body, is called a living being, and is further designated as mortal. It is not immortal by any reasonable supposition, but we, though we have never seen or rightly conceived a god, imagine an immortal being which has both a soul and a body which are united for all time. Let that, however, and our words concerning it, be as is pleasing to God; we will now consider the reason why the soul loses its wings. It is something like this. The natural function of the wing is to soar upwards and carry that which is heavy up to the place where dwells the race of the gods. More than any other thing that pertains to the body it partakes of the nature of the divine. But the divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and all such qualities; by these then the wings of the soul are nourished and grow, but by the opposite qualities, such as vileness and evil, they are wasted away and destroyed. Now the great leader in heaven, Zeus, driving a winged chariot, goes first, arranging all things and caring for all things. He is followed by an army of gods and spirits, arrayed in eleven squadrons; Hestia alone remains in the house of the gods. Of the rest, those who are included among the twelve great gods and are accounted leaders, are assigned each to his place in the army. There are many blessed sights and many ways hither and thither within the heaven, along which the blessed gods go to and fro attending each to his own duties; and whoever wishes, and is able, follows, for jealousy is excluded from the celestial band. But when they go to a feast and a banquet, they proceed steeply upward to the top of the vault of heaven, where the chariots of the gods, whose well matched horses obey the rein, advance easily, but the others with difficulty; for the horse of evil nature weighs the chariot down, making it heavy and pulling toward the earth the charioteer whose horse is not well trained. There the utmost toil and struggle await the soul. For those that are called immortal, when they reach the top, pass outside and take their place on the outer surface of the heaven, and when they have taken their stand, the revolution carries them round and they behold the things outside of the heaven. But the region above the heaven was never worthily sung by any earthly poet, nor will it ever be. It is, however, as I shall tell; for I must dare to speak the truth, especially as truth is my theme. For the colorless, formless, and intangible truly existing essence, with which all true knowledge is concerned, holds this region and is visible only to the mind, the pilot of the soul. Now the divine intelligence, since it is nurtured on mind and pure knowledge, and the intelligence of every soul which is capable of receiving that which befits it, rejoices in seeing reality for a space of time and by gazing upon truth is nourished and made happy until the revolution brings it again to the same place. In the revolution it beholds absolute justice, temperance, and knowledge, not such knowledge as has a beginning and varies as it is associated with one or another of the things we call realities, but that which abides in the real eternal absolute; and in the same way it beholds and feeds upon the other eternal verities, after which, passing down again within the heaven, it goes home, and there the charioteer puts up the horses at the manger and feeds them with ambrosia and then gives them nectar to drink. Such is the life of the gods; but of the other souls, that which best follows after God and is most like him, raises the head of the charioteer up into the outer region and is carried round in the revolution, troubled by the horses and hardly beholding the realities; and another sometimes rises and sometimes sinks, and, because its horses are unruly, it sees some things and fails to see others. The other souls follow after, all yearning for the upper region but unable to reach it, and are carried round beneath, trampling upon and colliding with one another, each striving to pass its neighbor. So there is the greatest confusion and sweat of rivalry, wherein many are lamed, and many wings are broken through the incompetence of the drivers; and after much toil they all go away without gaining a view of reality, and when they have gone away they feed upon opinion. But the reason of the great eagerness to see where the plain of truth is, lies in the fact that the fitting pasturage for the best part of the soul is in the meadow there, and the wing on which the soul is raised up is nourished by this. And this is a law of Destiny, that the soul which follows after God and obtains a view of any of the truths is free from harm until the next period, and if it can always attain this, is always unharmed; but when, through inability to follow, it fails to see, and through some mischance is filled with forgetfulness and evil and grows heavy, and when it has grown heavy, loses its wings and falls to the earth, then it is the law that this soul shall never pass into any beast at its first birth, but the soul that has seen the most shall enter into the birth of a man who is to be a philosopher or a lover of beauty, or one of a musical or loving nature, and the second soul into that of a lawful king or a warlike ruler, and the third into that of a politician or a man of business or a financier, the fourth into that of a hardworking gymnast or one who will be concerned with the cure of the body, and the fifth will lead the life of a prophet or some one who conducts mystic rites; to the sixth, a poet or some other imitative artist will be united, to the seventh, a craftsman or a husbandman, to the eighth, a sophist or a demagogue, to the ninth, a tyrant. Now in all these states, whoever lives justly obtains a better lot, and whoever lives unjustly, a worse. For each soul returns to the place whence it came in ten thousand years; for it does not regain its wings before that time has elapsed, except the soul of him who has been a guileless philosopher or a philosophical lover; these, when for three successive periods of a thousand years they have chosen such a life, after the third period of a thousand years become winged in the three thousandth year and go their way; but the rest, when they have finished their first life, receive judgment, and after the judgment some go to the places of correction under the earth and pay their penalty, while the others, made light and raised up into a heavenly place by justice, live in a manner worthy of the life they led in human form. But in the thousandth year both come to draw lots and choose their second life, each choosing whatever it wishes. Then a human soul may pass into the life of a beast, and a soul which was once human, may pass again from a beast into a man. For the soul which has never seen the truth can never pass into human form. For a human being must understand a general conception formed by collecting into a unity by means of reason the many perceptions of the senses; and this is a recollection of those things which our soul once beheld, when it journeyed with God and, lifting its vision above the things which we now say exist, rose up into real being. And therefore it is just that the mind of the philosopher only has wings, for he is always, so far as he is able, in communion through memory with those things the communion with which causes God to be divine. Now a man who employs such memories rightly is always being initiated into perfect mysteries and he alone becomes truly perfect; but since he separates himself from human interests and turns his attention toward the divine, he is rebuked by the vulgar, who consider him mad and do not know that he is inspired. All my discourse so far has been about the fourth kind of madness, which causes him to be regarded as mad, who, when he sees the beauty on earth, remembering the true beauty, feels his wings growing and longs to stretch them for an upward flight, but cannot do so, and, like a bird, gazes upward and neglects the things below. My discourse has shown that this is, of all inspirations, the best and of the highest origin to him who has it or who shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful, partaking in this madness, is called a lover. For, as has been said, every soul of man has by the law of nature beheld the realities, otherwise it would not have entered into a human being, but it is not easy for all souls to gain from earthly things a recollection of those realities, either for those which had but a brief view of them at that earlier time, or for those which, after falling to earth, were so unfortunate as to be turned toward unrighteousness through some evil communications and to have forgotten the holy sights they once saw. Few then are left which retain an adequate recollection of them; but these when they see here any likeness of the things of that other world, are stricken with amazement and can no longer control themselves; but they do not understand their condition, because they do not clearly perceive. Now in the earthly copies of justice and temperance and the other ideas which are precious to souls there is no light, but only a few, approaching the images through the darkling organs of sense, behold in them the nature of that which they imitate, and these few do this with difficulty. But at that former time they saw beauty shining in brightness, when, with a blessed company—we following in the train of Zeus, and others in that of some other god—they saw the blessed sight and vision and were initiated into that which is rightly called the most blessed of mysteries, which we celebrated in a state of perfection, when we were without experience of the evils which awaited us in the time to come, being permitted as initiates to the sight of perfect and simple and calm and happy apparitions, which we saw in the pure light, being ourselves pure and not entombed in this which we carry about with us and call the body, in which we are imprisoned like an oyster in its shell. So much, then, in honor of memory, on account of which I have now spoken at some length, through yearning for the joys of that other time. But beauty, as I said before, shone in brilliance among those visions; and since we came to earth we have found it shining most clearly through the clearest of our senses; for sight is the sharpest of the physical senses, though wisdom is not seen by it, for wisdom would arouse terrible love, if such a clear image of it were granted as would come through sight, and the same is true of the other lovely realities; but beauty alone has this privilege, and therefore it is most clearly seen and loveliest. Now he who is not newly initiated, or has been corrupted, does not quickly rise from this world to that other world and to absolute beauty when he sees its namesake here, and so he does not revere it when he looks upon it, but gives himself up to pleasure and like a beast proceeds to lust and begetting; he makes licence his companion and is not afraid or ashamed to pursue pleasure in violation of nature. But he who is newly initiated, who beheld many of those realities, when he sees a godlike face or form which is a good image of beauty, shudders at first, and something of the old awe comes over him, then, as he gazes, he reveres the beautiful one as a god, and if he did not fear to be thought stark mad, he would offer sacrifice to his beloved as to an idol or a god. And as he looks upon him, a reaction from his shuddering comes over him, with sweat and unwonted heat; for as the effluence of beauty enters him through the eyes, he is warmed; the effluence moistens the germ of the feathers, and as he grows warm, the parts from which the feathers grow, which were before hard and choked, and prevented the feathers from sprouting, become soft, and as the nourishment streams upon him, the quills of the feathers swell and begin to grow from the roots over all the form of the soul; for it was once all feathered. Now in this process the whole soul throbs and palpitates, and as in those who are cutting teeth there is an irritation and discomfort in the gums, when the teeth begin to grow, just so the soul suffers when the growth of the feathers begins; it is feverish and is uncomfortable and itches when they begin to grow. Then when it gazes upon the beauty of the boy and receives the particles which flow thence to it (for which reason they are called yearning),The play on the wordsME/RHandI(/MEROScannot be rendered accurately in English. Jowett approaches a rendering by the use of the words motion and emotion, but emotion is too weak a word forI(/MEROS. it is moistened and warmed, ceases from its pain and is filled with joy; but when it is alone and grows dry, the mouths of the passages in which the feathers begin to grow become dry and close up, shutting in the sprouting feathers, and the sprouts within, shut in with the yearning, throb like pulsing arteries, and each sprout pricks the passage in which it is, so that the whole soul, stung in every part, rages with pain; and then again, remembering the beautiful one, it rejoices. So, because of these two mingled sensations, it is greatly troubled by its strange condition; it is perplexed and maddened, and in its madness it cannot sleep at night or stay in any one place by day, but it is filled with longing and hastens wherever it hopes to see the beautiful one. And when it sees him and is bathed with the waters of yearning, the passages that were sealed are opened, the soul has respite from the stings and is eased of its pain, and this pleasure which it enjoys is the sweetest of pleasures at the time. Therefore the soul will not, if it can help it, be left alone by the beautiful one, but esteems him above all others, forgets for him mother and brothers and all friends, neglects property and cares not for its loss, and despising all the customs and proprieties in which it formerly took pride, it is ready to be a slave and to sleep wherever it is allowed, as near as possible to the beloved; for it not only reveres him who possesses beauty, but finds in him the only healer of its greatest woes. Now this condition, fair boy, about which I am speaking, is called Love by men, but when you hear what the gods call it, perhaps because of your youth you will laugh. But some of the Homeridae, I believe, repeat two verses on Love from the spurious poems of Homer, one of which is very outrageous and not perfectly metrical. They sing them as follows: “Mortals call him winged Love, but the immortals call himThe winged One, because he must needs grow wings.”HomeridaeYou may believe this, or not; but the condition of lovers and the cause of it are just as I have said. Now he who is a follower of Zeus, when seized by love can bear a heavier burden of the winged god; but those who are servants of Ares and followed in his train, when they have been seized by Love and think they have been wronged in any way by the beloved, become murderous and are ready to sacrifice themselves and the beloved. And so it is with the follower of each of the other gods; he lives, so far as he is able, honoring and imitating that god, so long as he is uncorrupted, and is living his first life on earth, and in that way he behaves and conducts himself toward his beloved and toward all others. Now each one chooses his love from the ranks of the beautiful according to his character, and he fashions him and adorns him like a statue, as though he were his god, to honor and worship him. The followers of Zeus desire that the soul of him whom they love be like Zeus; so they seek for one of philosophical and lordly nature, and when they find him and love him, they do all they can to give him such a character. If they have not previously had experience, they learn then from all who can teach them anything; they seek after information themselves, and when they search eagerly within themselves to find the nature of their god, they are successful, because they have been compelled to keep their eyes fixed upon the god, and as they reach and grasp him by memory they are inspired and receive from him character and habits, so far as it is possible for a man to have part in God. Now they consider the beloved the cause of all this, so they love him more than before, and if they draw the waters of their inspiration from Zeus, like the bacchantes, they pour it out upon the beloved and make him, so far as possible, like their god. And those who followed after Hera seek a kingly nature, and when they have found such an one, they act in a corresponding manner toward him in all respects; and likewise the followers of Apollo, and of each of the gods, go out and seek for their beloved a youth whose nature accords with that of the god, and when they have gained his affection, by imitating the god themselves and by persuasion and education they lead the beloved to the conduct and nature of the god, so far as each of them can do so; they exhibit no jealousy or meanness toward the loved one, but endeavor by every means in their power to lead him to the likeness of the god whom they honor. Thus the desire of the true lovers, and the initiation into the mysteries of love, which they teach, if they accomplish what they desire in the way I describe, is beautiful and brings happiness from the inspired lover to the loved one, if he be captured; and the fair one who is captured is caught in the following manner:— In the beginning of this tale I divided each soul into three parts, two of which had the form of horses, the third that of a charioteer. Let us retain this division. Now of the horses we say one is good and the other bad; but we did not define what the goodness of the one and the badness of the other was. That we must now do. The horse that stands at the right hand is upright and has clean limbs; he carries his neck high, has an aquiline nose, is white in color, and has dark eyes; he is a friend of honor joined with temperance and modesty, and a follower of true glory; he needs no whip, but is guided only by the word of command and by reason. The other, however, is crooked, heavy, ill put together, his neck is short and thick, his nose flat, his color dark, his eyes grey and bloodshot; he is the friend of insolence and pride, is shaggy-eared and deaf, hardly obedient to whip and spurs. Now when the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring vision, and his whole soul is warmed by the sight, and is full of the tickling and prickings of yearning, the horse that is obedient the charioteer, constrained then as always by modesty, controls himself and does not leap upon the beloved; but the other no longer heeds the pricks or the whip of the charioteer, but springs wildly forward, causing all possible trouble to his mate and to the charioteer, and forcing them to approach the beloved and propose the joys of love. And they at first pull back indignantly and will not be forced to do terrible and unlawful deeds; but finally, as the trouble has no end, they go forward with him, yielding and agreeing to do his bidding. And they come to the beloved and behold his radiant face. And as the charioteer looks upon him, his memory is borne back to the true nature of beauty, and he sees it standing with modesty upon a pedestal of chastity, and when he sees this he is afraid and falls backward in reverence, and in falling he is forced to pull the reins so violently backward as to bring both horses upon their haunches, the one quite willing, since he does not oppose him, but the unruly beast very unwilling. And as they go away, one horse in his shame and wonder wets all the soul with sweat, but the other, as soon as he is recovered from the pain of the bit and the fail, before he has fairly taken breath, breaks forth into angry reproaches, bitterly reviling his mate and the charioteer for their cowardice and lack of manhood in deserting their post and breaking their agreement; and again, in spite of their unwillingness, he urges them forward and hardly yields to their prayer that he postpone the matter to another time. Then when the time comes which they have agreed upon, they pretend that they have forgotten it, but he reminds them; struggling, and neighing, and pulling he forces them again with the same purpose to approach the beloved one, and when they are near him, he lowers his head, raises his tail, takes the bit in his teeth, and pulls shamelessly. The effect upon the charioteer is the same as before, but more pronounced; he falls back like a racer from the starting-rope, pulls the bit backward even more violently than before from the teeth of the unruly horse, covers his scurrilous tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the ground, causing him much pain. Now when the bad horse has gone through the same experience many times and has ceased from his unruliness, he is humbled and follows henceforth the wisdom of the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one, he is overwhelmed with fear; and so from that time on the soul of the lover follows the beloved in reverence and awe. Now the beloved, since he receives all service from his lover, as if he were a god, and since the lover is not feigning, but is really in love, and since the beloved himself is by nature friendly to him who serves him, although he may at some earlier time have been prejudiced by his schoolfellows or others, who said that it was a disgrace to yield to a lover, and may for that reason have repulsed his lover, yet, as time goes on, his youth and destiny cause him to admit him to his society. For it is the law of fate that evil can never be a friend to evil and that good must always be friend to good. And when the lover is thus admitted, and the privilege of conversation and intimacy has been granted him, his good will, as it shows itself in close intimacy, astonishes the beloved, who discovers that the friendship of all his other friends and relatives is as nothing when compared with that of his inspired lover. And as this intimacy continues and the lover comes near and touches the beloved in the gymnasia and in their general intercourse, then the fountain of that stream which Zeus, when he was in love with Ganymede, called “desire” flows copiously upon the lover; and some of it flows into him, and some, when he is filled, overflows outside; and just as the wind or an echo rebounds from smooth, hard surfaces and returns whence it came, so the stream of beauty passes back into the beautiful one through the eyes, the natural inlet to the soul, where it reanimates the passages of the feathers, waters them and makes the feathers begin to grow, filling the soul of the loved one with love. So he is in love, but he knows not with whom; he does not understand his own condition and cannot explain it; like one who has caught a disease of the eyes from another, he can give no reason for it; he sees himself in his lover as in a mirror, but is not conscious of the fact. And in the lover's presence, like him he ceases from his pain, and in his absence, like him he is filled with yearning such as he inspires, and love's image, requited love, dwells within him; but he calls it, and believes it to be, not love, but friendship. Like the lover, though less strongly, he desires to see his friend, to touch him, kiss him, and lie down by him; and naturally these things are soon brought about. Now as they lie together, the unruly horse of the lover has something to say to the charioteer, and demands a little enjoyment in return for his many troubles; and the unruly horse of the beloved says nothing, but teeming with passion and confused emotions he embraces and kisses his lover, caressing him as his best friend; and when they lie together, he would not refuse his lover any favor, if he asked it; but the other horse and the charioteer oppose all this with modesty and reason. If now the better elements of the mind, which lead to a well ordered life and to philosophy, prevail, they live a life of happiness and harmony here on earth, self controlled and orderly, holding in subjection that which causes evil in the soul and giving freedom to that which makes for virtue; and when this life is ended they are light and winged, for they have conquered in one of the three truly Olympic contests. Neither human wisdom nor divine inspiration can confer upon man any greater blessing than this. If however they live a life less noble and without philosophy, but yet ruled by the love of honor, probably, when they have been drinking, or in some other moment of carelessness, the two unruly horses, taking the souls off their guard, will bring them together and seize upon and accomplish that which is by the many accounted blissful; and when this has once been done, they continue the practice, but infrequently, since what they are doing is not approved by the whole mind. So these two pass through life as friends, though not such friends as the others, both at the time of their love and afterwards, believing that they have exchanged the most binding pledges of love, and that they can never break them and fall into enmity. And at last, when they depart from the body, they are not winged, to be sure, but their wings have begun to grow, so that the madness of love brings them no small reward; for it is the law that those who have once begun their upward progress shall never again pass into darkness and the journey under the earth, but shall live a happy life in the light as they journey together, and because of their love shall be alike in their plumage when they receive their wings. These blessings, so great and so divine, the friendship of a lover will confer upon you, dear boy; but the affection of the non-lover, which is alloyed with mortal prudence and follows mortal and parsimonious rules of conduct, will beget in the beloved soul the narrowness which the common folk praise as virtue; it will cause the soul to be a wanderer upon the earth for nine thousand years and a fool below the earth at last. There, dear Love, thou hast my recantation, which I have offered and paid as beautifully and as well as I could, especially in the poetical expressions which I was forced to employ on account of Phaedrus. Pardon, I pray, my former words and accept these words with favor; be kind and gracious to me; do not in anger take from me the art of love which thou didst give me, and deprive me not of sight, but grant unto me to be even more than now esteemed by the beautiful. And if in our former discourse Phaedrus and I said anything harsh against thee, blame Lysias, the father of that discourse, make him to cease from such speeches, and turn him, as his brother Polemarchus is turned, toward philosophy, that his lover Phaedrus may no longer hesitate, as he does now, between two ways, but may direct his life with all singleness of purpose toward love and philosophical discourses.

I join in your prayer, Socrates, and pray that this may come to pass, if this is best for us. But all along I have been wondering at your discourse, you made it so much more beautiful than the first; so that I am afraid Lysias will make a poor showing, if he consents to compete with it. Indeed, lately one of the politicians was abusing him for this very thing, and through all his abusive speech kept calling him a speech-writer; so perhaps out of pride he may refrain from writing.

That is an absurd idea, young man, and you are greatly mistaken in your friend if you think he is so much afraid of noise. Perhaps, too, you think the man who abused him believed what he was saying.

He seemed to believe, Socrates; and you know yourself that the most influential and important men in our cities are ashamed to write speeches and leave writings behind them, through fear of being called sophists by posterity.

You seem to be unacquainted with the “sweet elbow,”This is a proverbial expression, similar in meaning to our “sour grapes.” The explanation given in the Mss., that the sweet elbow gets its name from the long bend, or elbow, in the Nile may be an addition by some commentator; at any rate, it hardly fits our passage. Phaedrus, and besides the elbow, you seem not to know that the proudest of the statesmen are most fond of writing and of leaving writings behind them, since they care so much for praise that when they write a speech they add at the beginning the names of those who praise them in each instance.

What do you mean? I don't understand.

You don't understand that the name of the approver is written first in the writings of statesmen.

How so?

The writer says, “It was voted by the senate (or the people, or both), and so-and-so moved,” mentioning his own name with great dignity and praise, then after that he goes on, displaying his own wisdom to his approvers, and sometimes making a very long document. Does it seem to you that a thing of that sort is anything else than a written speech?

No, certainly not.

Then if this speech is approved, the writer leaves the theater in great delight; but if it is not recorded and he is not granted the privilege of speech-writing and is not considered worthy to be an author, he is grieved, and his friends with him.

Decidedly.

Evidently not because they despise the profession, but because they admire it.

To be sure.

Well then, when an orator or a king is able to rival the greatness of Lycurgus or Solon or Darius and attain immortality as a writer in the state, does he not while living think himself equal to the gods, and has not posterity the same opinion of him, when they see his writings?

Very true.

Do you think, then, that any of the statesmen, no matter how ill-disposed toward Lysias, reproaches him for being a writer?

It is not likely, according to what you say; for he would be casting reproach upon that which he himself desires to be.

Then that is clear to all, that writing speeches is not in itself a disgrace.

How can it be?

But the disgrace, I fancy, consists in speaking or writing not well, but disgracefully and badly.

Evidently.

What, then, is the method of writing well or badly? Do we want to question Lysias about this, and anyone else who ever has written or will write anything, whether a public or private document, in verse or in prose, be he poet or ordinary man?

You ask if we want to question them? What else should one live for, so to speak, but for such pleasures? Certainly not for those which cannot be enjoyed without previous pain, which is the case with nearly all bodily pleasures and causes them to be justly called slavish.

We have plenty of time, apparently; and besides, the locusts seem to be looking down upon us as they sing and talk with each other in the heat. Now if they should see us not conversing at mid-day, but, like most people, dozing, lulled to sleep by their song because of our mental indolence, they would quite justly laugh at us, thinking that some slaves had come to their resort and were slumbering about the fountain at noon like sheep. But if they see us conversing and sailing past them unmoved by the charm of their Siren voices, perhaps they will be pleased and give us the gift which the gods bestowed on them to give to men.

What is this gift? I don't seem to have heard of it.

It is quite improper for a lover of the Muses never to have heard of such things. The story goes that these locusts were once men, before the birth of the Muses, and when the Muses were born and song appeared, some of the men were so overcome with delight that they sang and sang, forgetting food and drink, until at last unconsciously they died. From them the locust tribe afterwards arose, and they have this gift from the Muses, that from the time of their birth they need no sustenance, but sing continually, without food or drink, until they die, when they go to the Muses and report who honors each of them on earth. They tell Terpsichore of those who have honored her in dances, and make them dearer to her; they gain the favor of Erato for the poets of love, and that of the other Muses for their votaries, according to their various ways of honoring them; and to Calliope, the eldest of the Muses, and to Urania who is next to her, they make report of those who pass their lives in philosophy and who worship these Muses who are most concerned with heaven and with thought divine and human and whose music is the sweetest. So for many reasons we ought to talk and not sleep in the noontime.

Yes, we ought to talk.

We should, then, as we were proposing just now, discuss the theory of good (or bad) speaking and writing.

Clearly.

If a speech is to be good, must not the mind of the speaker know the truth about the matters of which he is to speak?

On that point, Socrates, I have heard that one who is to be an orator does not need to know what is really just, but what would seem just to the multitude who are to pass judgment, and not what is really good or noble, but what will seem to be so; for they say that persuasion comes from what seems to be true, not from the truth.

Phaedrus, The word,which the wise speak must not be rejected, but we must see if they are right; so we must not pass by this which you just said.

You are right.

Let us then examine it in this way.

How?

If I should urge you to buy a horse and fight against the invaders, and neither of us knew what a horse was, but I merely knew this about you, that Phaedrus thinks a horse is the one of the tame animals which has the longest ears—

It would be ridiculous, Socrates.

No, not yet; but if I tried to persuade you in all seriousness, composing a speech in praise of the ass, which I called a horse, and saying that the beast was a most valuable possession at home and in war, that you could use him as a mount in battle, and that he was able to carry baggage and was useful for many other purposes—

Then it would be supremely ridiculous.

But is it not better to be ridiculous than to be clever and an enemy?

To be sure.

Then when the orator who does not know what good and evil are undertakes to persuade a state which is equally ignorant, not by praising the “shadow of an ass” under the name of a horse, but by praising evil under the name of good, and having studied the opinions of the multitude persuades them to do evil instead of good, what harvest do you suppose his oratory will reap thereafter from the seed he has sown?

No very good harvest.

Well, do you think we have reproached the art of speaking too harshly? Perhaps she might say: “Why do you talk such nonsense, you strange men? I do not compel anyone to learn to speak without knowing the truth, but if my advice is of any value, he learns that first and then acquires me. So what I claim is this, that without my help the knowledge of the truth does not give the art of persuasion.”

And will she be right in saying this?

Yes, if the arguments that are coming against her testify that she is an art. For I seem, as it were, to hear some arguments approaching and protesting that she is lying and is not an art, but a craft devoid of art. A real art of speaking, says the Laconian, which does not seize hold of truth, does not exist and never will.

We have need of these arguments, Socrates. Bring them here and examine their words and their meaning.

Come here, then, noble creatures, and persuade the fair young Phaedrus that unless he pay proper attention to philosophy he will never be able to speak properly about anything. And let Phaedrus answer.

Ask your questions.

Is not rhetoric in its entire nature an art which leads the soul by means of words, not only in law courts and the various other public assemblages, but in private companies as well? And is it not the same when concerned with small things as with great, and, properly speaking, no more to be esteemed in important than in trifling matters? Is this what you have heard?

No, by Zeus, not that exactly; but the art of speaking and writing is exercised chiefly in lawsuits, and that of speaking also in public assemblies; and I never heard of any further uses.

Then you have heard only of the treatises on rhetoric by Nestor and Odysseus, which they wrote when they had nothing to do at Troy, and you have not heard of that by Palamedes?

Nor of Nestor's either, unless you are disguising Gorgias under the name of Nestor and Thrasymachus or Theodorus under that of Odysseus.

Perhaps I am. However, never mind them; but tell me, what do the parties in a lawsuit do in court? Do they not contend in speech, or what shall we say they do?

Exactly that.

About the just and the unjust?

Yes.

Then he whose speaking is an art will make the same thing appear to the same persons at one time just and at another, if he wishes, unjust?

Certainly.

And in political speaking he will make the same things seem to the State at one time good and at another the opposite?

Just so.

Do we not know that the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno) has such an art of speaking that the same things appear to his hearers to be alike and unlike, one and many, stationary and in motion?

Certainly.

Then the art of contention in speech is not confined to courts and political gatherings, but apparently, if it is an art at all, it would be one and the same in all kinds of speaking, the art by which a man will be able to produce a resemblance between all things between which it can be produced, and to bring to the light the resemblances produced and disguised by anyone else.

What do you mean by that?

I think it will be plain if we examine the matter in this way. Is deception easier when there is much difference between things or when there is little?

When there is little.

And if you make a transition by small steps from anything to its opposite you will be more likely to escape detection than if you proceed by leaps and bounds.

Of course.

Then he who is to deceive another, and is not to be deceived himself, must know accurately the similarity and dissimilarity of things.

Yes, he must.

Now will he be able, not knowing the truth about a given thing, to recognize in other things the great or small degree of likeness to that which he does not know?

It is impossible.

In the case, then, of those whose opinions are at variance with facts and who are deceived, this error evidently slips in through some resemblances.

It does happen in that way.

Then he who does not understand the real nature of things will not possess the art of making his hearers pass from one thing to its opposite by leading them through the intervening resemblances, or of avoiding such deception himself?

Never in the world.

Then, my friend, he who knows not the truth, but pursues opinions, will, it seems, attain an art of speech which is ridiculous, and not an art at all.

Probably.

Shall we look in the speech of Lysias, which you have with you, and in what I said, for something which we think shows art and the lack of art?

By all means, for now our talk is too abstract, since we lack sufficient examples.

And by some special good fortune, as it seems, the two discourses contain an example of the way in which one who knows the truth may lead his hearers on with sportive words; and I, Phaedrus, think the divinities of the place are the cause thereof; and perhaps too, the prophets of the Muses, who are singing above our heads, may have granted this boon to us by inspiration; at any rate, I possess no art of speaking.

So be it; only make your meaning clear.

Read me the beginning of Lysias' discourse.

You know what my condition is, and you have heard how I think it is to our advantage to arrange these matters. And I claim that I ought not to be refused what I ask because I am not your lover. For lovers repent of—

Stop. Now we must tell what there is in this that is faulty and lacks art, must we not?

Yes.

It is clear to everyone that we are in accord about some matters of this kind and at variance about others, is it not?

I think I understand your meaning, but express it still more clearly.

When one says “iron” or “silver,” we all understand the same thing, do we not?

Surely.

What if he says “justice” or “goodness”? Do we not part company, and disagree with each other and with ourselves?

Certainly.

Then in some things we agree and in others we do not.

True.

Then in which of the two are we more easy to deceive, and in which has rhetoric the greater power?

Evidently in the class of doubtful things.

Then he who is to develop an art of rhetoric must first make a methodical division and acquire a clear impression of each class, that in which people must be in doubt and that in which they are not.

He who has acquired that would have conceived an excellent principle.

Then I think when he has to do with a particular case, he will not be ignorant, but will know clearly to which of the two classes the thing belongs about which he is to speak.

Of course.

Well then, to which does Love belong? To the doubtful things or the others?

To the doubtful, surely; if he did not, do you think he would have let you say what you said just now about him, that he is an injury to the beloved and to the lover, and again that he is the greatest of blessings?

Excellent. But tell me this—for I was in such an ecstasy that I have quite forgotten—whether I defined love in the beginning of my discourse.

Yes, by Zeus, and wonderfully well.

Oh, how much more versed the nymphs, daughters of Achelous, and Pan, son of Hermes, are in the art of speech than Lysias, son of Cephalus! Or am I wrong, and did Lysias also, in the beginning of his discourse on Love, compel us to suppose Love to be some one thing which he chose to consider it, and did he then compose and finish his discourse with that in view? Shall we read the beginning of it again?

If you like; but what you seek is not in it.

Read, that I may hear Lysias himself.

You know what my condition is, and you have heard how I think it is to our advantage to arrange these matters. And I claim that I ought not to be refused what I ask because I am not your lover. For lovers repent of the kindnesses they have done when their passion ceases.

He certainly does not at all seem to do what we demand, for he does not even begin at the beginning, but undertakes to swim on his back up the current of his discourse from its end, and begins with what the lover would say at the end to his beloved. Am I not right, Phaedrus my dear?

Certainly that of which he speaks is an ending.

And how about the rest? Don't you think the parts of the discourse are thrown out helter-skelter? Or does it seem to you that the second topic had to be put second for any cogent reason, or that any of the other things he says are so placed? It seemed to me, who am wholly ignorant, that the writer uttered boldly whatever occurred to him. Do you know any rhetorical reason why he arranged his topics in this order?

You flatter me in thinking that I can discern his motives so accurately.

But I do think you will agree to this, that every discourse must be organized, like a living being, with a body of its own, as it were, so as not to be headless or footless, but to have a middle and members, composed in fitting relation to each other and to the whole.

Certainly.

See then whether this is the case with your friend's discourse, or not. You will find that it is very like the inscription that some say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

What sort of inscription is that, and what is the matter with it?

This is it: A bronze maiden am I; and I am placed upon the tomb of Midas. So long as water runs and tall trees put forth leaves, Remaining in this very spot upon a much lamented tomb, I shall declare to passers by that Midas is buried here; and you perceive, I fancy, that it makes no difference whether any line of it is put first or last.

You are making fun of our discourse, Socrates.

Then, to spare your feelings, let us say no more of this discourse—and yet I think there were many things in it which would be useful examples to consider, though not exactly to imitate—and let us turn to the other discourses; for there was in them, I think, something which those who wish to investigate rhetoric might well examine.

What do you mean?

The two discourses were opposites; for one maintained that the lover, and the other that the non-lover, should be favored.

And they did it right manfully.

I thought you were going to speak the truth and say “madly”; however, that is just what I had in mind. We said that love was a kind of madness, did we not?

Yes.

And that there are two kinds of madness, one arising from human diseases, and the other from a divine release from the customary habits.

Certainly.

And we made four divisions of the divine madness, ascribing them to four gods, saying that prophecy was inspired by Apollo, the mystic madness by Dionysus, the poetic by the Muses, and the madness of love, inspired by Aphrodite and Eros, we said was the best. We described the passion of love in some sort of figurative manner, expressing some truth, perhaps, and perhaps being led away in another direction, and after composing a somewhat plausible discourse, we chanted a sportive and mythic hymn in meet and pious strain to the honor of your lord and mine, Phaedrus, Love, the guardian of beautiful boys.

Yes, and I found it very pleasant to hear.

Here let us take up this point and see how the discourse succeeded in passing from blame to praise.

What do you mean?

It seems to me that the discourse was, as a whole, really sportive jest; but in these chance utterances were involved two principles, the essence of which it would be gratifying to learn, if art could teach it.

What principles?

That of perceiving and bringing together in one idea the scattered particulars, that one may make clear by definition the particular thing which he wishes to explain; just as now, in speaking of Love, we said what he is and defined it, whether well or ill. Certainly by this means the discourse acquired clearness and consistency.

And what is the other principle, Socrates?

That of dividing things again by classes, where the natural joints are, and not trying to break any part, after the manner of a bad carver. As our two discourses just now assumed one common principle, unreason, and then, just as the body, which is one, is naturally divisible into two, right and left, with parts called by the same names, so our two discourses conceived of madness as naturally one principle within us, and one discourse, cutting off the left-hand part, continued to divide this until it found among its parts a sort of left-handed love, which it very justly reviled, but the other discourse, leading us to the right-hand part of madness, found a love having the same name as the first, but divine, which it held up to view and praised as the author of our greatest blessings.

Very true.

Now I myself, Phaedrus, am a lover of these processes of division and bringing together, as aids to speech and thought; and if I think any other man is able to see things that can naturally be collected into one and divided into many, him I follow after and walk in his footsteps as if he were a god.Home. Od. 5.193 O(\ D' E)/PEITA MET' I)/XNIA BAI=NE QEOI=O, and he walked in the footsteps of the god. And whether the name I give to those who can do this is right or wrong, God knows, but I have called them hitherto dialecticians. But tell me now what name to give to those who are taught by you and Lysias, or is this that art of speech by means of which Thrasymachus and the rest have become able speakers themselves, and make others so, if they are willing to pay them royal tribute?

They are royal men, but not trained in the matters about which you ask. I think you give this method the right name when you call it dialectic; but it seems to me that rhetoric still escapes us.

What do you mean? Can there be anything of importance, which is not included in these processes and yet comes under the head of art? Certainly you and I must not neglect it, but must say what it is that remains of rhetoric.

A great many things remain, Socrates, the things that are written in the books on rhetoric.

Thank you for reminding me. You mean that there must be an introduction first, at the beginning of the discourse; these are the things you mean, are they not?—the niceties of the art.

Yes.

And the narrative must come second with the testimony after it, and third the proofs, and fourth the probabilities; and confirmation and further confirmation are mentioned, I believe, by the man from Byzantium, that most excellent artist in words.

You mean the worthy Theodorus?

Of course. And he tells how refutation and further refutation must be accomplished, both in accusation and in defence. Shall we not bring the illustrious Parian, Evenus, into our discussion, who invented covert allusion and indirect praises? And some say that he also wrote indirect censures, composing them in verse as an aid to memory; for he is a clever man. And shall we leave Gorgias and Tisias undisturbed, who saw that probabilities are more to be esteemed than truths, who make small things seem great and great things small by the power of their words, and new things old and old things the reverse, and who invented conciseness of speech and measureless length on all subjects? And once when Prodicus heard these inventions, he laughed, and said that he alone had discovered the art of proper speech, that discourses should be neither long nor short, but of reasonable length.

O Prodicus! How clever!

And shall we not mention Hippias, our friend from Elis? I think he would agree with him.

Oh yes.

And what shall we say of Polus and his shrines of learned speech, such as duplication and sententiousness and figurativeness, and what of the names with which Licymnius presented him to effect beautiful diction?

Were there not some similar inventions of Protagoras, Socrates?

Yes, my boy, correctness of diction, and many other fine things. For tearful speeches, to arouse pity for old age and poverty, I think the precepts of the mighty Chalcedonian hold the palm, and he is also a genius, as he said, at rousing large companies to wrath, and soothing them again by his charms when they are angry, and most powerful in devising and abolishing calumnies on any grounds whatsoever. But all seem to be in agreement concerning the conclusion of discourses, which some call recapitulation, while others give it some other name.

You mean making a summary of the points of the speech at the end of it, so as to remind the hearers of what has been said?

These are the things I mean, these and anything else you can mention concerned with the art of rhetoric.

There are only little things, not worth mentioning.

Never mind the little things; let us bring these other things more under the light and see what force of art they have and when.

They have a very powerful force, at least in large assemblies.

They have; but my friend, see if you agree with me in thinking that their warp has gaps in it.

Go on and show them.

Tell me; if anyone should go to your friend Eryximachus or to his father Acumenus and should say “I know how to apply various drugs to people, so as to make them warm or, if I wish, cold, and I can make them vomit, if I like, or can make their bowels move, and all that sort of thing; and because of this knowledge I claim that I am a physician and can make any other man a physician, to whom I impart the knowledge of these things”; what do you think they would say?

They would ask him, of course, whether he knew also whom he ought to cause to do these things, and when, and how much.

If then he should say: “No, not at all; but I think that he who has learned these things from me will be able to do by himself the things you ask about?”

They would say, I fancy, that the man was crazy and, because he had read something in a book or had stumbled upon some medicines, imagined that he was a physician when he really had no knowledge of the art.

And what if someone should go to Sophocles or Euripides and should say that he knew how to make very long speeches about a small matter, and very short ones about a great affair, and pitiful utterances, if he wished, and again terrible and threatening ones, and all that sort of thing, and that he thought by imparting those things he could teach the art of writing tragedies?

They also, I fancy, Socrates, would laugh at him, if he imagined that tragedy was anything else than the proper combination of these details in such a way that they harmonize with each other and with the whole composition.

But they would not, I suppose, rebuke him harshly, but they would behave as a musician would, if he met a man who thought he understood harmony because he could strike the highest and lowest notes. He would not say roughly, “You wretch, you are mad,” but being a musician, he would say in gentler tones, “My friend, he who is to be a harmonist must know these things you mention, but nothing prevents one who is at your stage of knowledge from being quite ignorant of harmony. You know the necessary preliminaries of harmony, but not harmony itself.”

Quite correct.

So Sophocles would say that the man exhibited the preliminaries of tragedy, not tragedy itself, and Acumenus that he knew the preliminaries of medicine, not medicine itself.

Exactly so.

Well then, if the mellifluous Adrastusou)d' ei) *tantali/dew *pe/lopos basileu/teros ei)/h glw=ssan d' *)adrh/stou meilixo/ghrun e)/xoi, “not even if he were more kingly than Pelops and had the mellifluous tongue of Adrastus.” Perhaps the orator Antiphon is referred to under the name of Adstratus, cf. chapter xliii. above. or Pericles heard of the excellent accomplishments which we just enumerated, brachylogies and figurative speech and all the other things we said we must bringto the light and examine, do we suppose they would, like you and me, be so ill-bred as to speak discourteously of those who have written and taught these things as the art of rhetoric? Would they not, since they are wiser than we, censure us also and say, “Phaedrus and Socrates, we ought not to be angry, but lenient, if certain persons who are ignorant of dialectics have been unable to define the nature of rhetoric and on this account have thought, when they possessed the knowledge that is a necessary preliminary to rhetoric, that they had discovered rhetoric, and believe that by teaching these preliminaries to others they have taught them rhetoric completely, and that the persuasive use of these details and the composition of the whole discourse is a small matter which their pupils must supply of themselves in their writings or speeches.”

Well, Socrates, it does seem as if that which those men teach and write about as the art of rhetoric were such as you describe. I think you are right. But how and from whom is the truly rhetorical and persuasive art to be acquired?

Whether one can acquire it, so as to become a perfect orator, Phaedrus, is probably, and perhaps must be, dependent on conditions, like everything else. If you are naturally rhetorical, you will become a notable orator, when to your natural endowments you have added knowledge and practice; at whatever point you are deficient in these, you will be incomplete. But so far as the art is concerned, I do not think the quest of it lies along the path of Lysias and Thrasymachus.

Where then?

I suppose, my friend, Pericles is the most perfect orator in existence.

Well?

All great arts demand discussion and high speculation about nature; for this loftiness of mind and effectiveness in all directions seem somehow to come from such pursuits. This was in Pericles added to his great natural abilities; for it was, I think, his falling in with Anaxagoras, who was just such a man, that filled him with high thoughts and taught him the nature of mind and of lack of mind, subjects about which Anaxagoras used chiefly to discourse, and from these speculations he drew and applied to the art of speaking what is of use to it.

What do you mean by that?

The method of the art of healing is much the same as that of rhetoric.

How so?

In both cases you must analyze a nature, in one that of the body and in the other that of the soul, if you are to proceed in a scientific manner, not merely by practice and routine, to impart health and strength to the body by prescribing medicine and diet, or by proper discourses and training to give to the soul the desired belief and virtue.

That, Socrates, is probably true.

Now do you think one can acquire any appreciable knowledge of the nature of the soul without knowing the nature of the whole man?

If Hippocrates the Asclepiad is to be trusted, one cannot know the nature of the body, either, except in that way.

He is right, my friend; however, we ought not to be content with the authority of Hippocrates, but to see also if our reason agrees with him on examination.

I assent.

Then see what Hippocrates and true reason say about nature. In considering the nature of anything, must we not consider first, whether that in respect to which we wish to be learned ourselves and to make others learned is simple or multiform, and then, if it is simple, enquire what power of acting it possesses, or of being acted upon, and by what, and if it has many forms, number them, and then see in the case of each form, as we did in the case of the simple nature, what its action is and how it is acted upon and by what?

Very likely, Socrates.

At any rate, any other mode of procedure would be like the progress of a blind man. Yet surely he who pursues any study scientifically ought not to be comparable to a blind or a deaf man, but evidently the man whose rhetorical teaching is a real art will explain accurately the nature of that to which his words are to be addressed, and that is the soul, is it not?

Of course.

Then this is the goal of all his effort; he tries to produce conviction in the soul. Is not that so?

Yes.

So it is clear that Thrasymachus, or anyone else who seriously teaches the art of rhetoric, will first describe the soul with perfect accuracy and make us see whether it is one and all alike, or, like the body, of multiform aspect; for this is what we call explaining its nature.

Certainly.

And secondly he will say what its action is and toward what it is directed, or how it is acted upon and by what.

To be sure.

Thirdly, he will classify the speeches and the souls and will adapt each to the other, showing the causes of the effects produced and why one kind of soul is necessarily persuaded by certain classes of speeches, and another is not.

That would, I think, be excellent.

By no other method of exposition or speech will this, or anything else, ever be written or spoken with real art. But those whom you have heard, who write treatises on the art of speech nowadays, are deceivers and conceal the nature of the soul, though they know it very well. Until they write and speak by this method we cannot believe that they write by the rules of art.

What is this method?

It is not easy to tell the exact expressions to be used; but I will tell how one must write, if one is to do it, so far as possible, in a truly artistic way.

Speak then.

Since it is the function of speech to lead souls by persuasion, he who is to be a rhetorician must know the various forms of soul. Now they are so and so many and of such and such kinds, wherefore men also are of different kinds: these we must classify. Then there are also various classes of speeches, to one of which every speech belongs. So men of a certain sort are easily persuaded by speeches of a certain sort for a certain reason to actions or beliefs of a certain sort, and men of another sort cannot be so persuaded. The student of rhetoric must, accordingly, acquire a proper knowledge of these classes and then be able to follow them accurately with his senses when he sees them in the practical affairs of life; otherwise he can never have any profit from the lectures he may have heard. But when he has learned to tell what sort of man is influenced by what sort of speech, and is able, if he comes upon such a man, to recognize him and to convince himself that this is the man and this now actually before him is the nature spoken of in a certain lecture, to which he must now make a practical application of a certain kind of speech in a certain way to persuade his hearer to a certain action or belief—when he has acquired all this, and has added thereto a knowledge of the times for speaking and for keeping silence, and has also distinguished the favorable occasions for brief speech or pitiful speech or intensity and all the classes of speech which he has learned, then, and not till then, will his art be fully and completely finished; and if anyone who omits any of these points in his speaking or writing claims to speak by the rules of art, the one who disbelieves him is the better man. “Now then,” perhaps the writer of our treatise will say, “Phaedrus and Socrates, do you agree to all this? Or must the art of speech be described in some other way?”

No other way is possible, Socrates. But it seems a great task to attain to it.

Very true. Therefore you must examine all that has been said from every point of view, to see if no shorter and easier road to the art appears, that one may not take a long and rough road, when there is a short and smooth one. If you have heard from Lysias or anyone else anything that can help us, try to remember it and tell it.

If it depended on trying, I might, but just now I have nothing to say.

Then shall I tell something that I have heard some of those say who make these matters their business?

Pray do.

Even the wolf, you know, Phaedrus, has a right to an advocate, as they say.

Do you be his advocate.

Very well. They say that there is no need of treating these matters with such gravity and carrying them back so far to first principles with many words; for, as we said in the beginning of this discussion, he who is to be a competent rhetorician need have nothing at all to do, they say, with truth in considering things which are just or good, or men who are so, whether by nature or by education. For in the courts, they say, nobody cares for truth about these matters, but for that which is convincing; and that is probability, so that he who is to be an artist in speech must fix his attention upon probability. For sometimes one must not even tell what was actually done, if it was not likely to be done, but what was probable, whether in accusation or defence; and in brief, a speaker must always aim at probability, paying no attention to truth; for this method, if pursued throughout the whole speech, provides us with the entire art.

You have stated just what those say who pretend to possess the art of speech, Socrates. I remember that we touched upon this matter briefly before,See Plat. Phaedrus 259e. but the professional rhetoricians think it is of great importance.

Well, there is Tisias whom you have studied carefully; now let Tisias himself tell us if he does not say that probability is that which most people think.

That is just what he says.

Apparently after he had invented this clever scientific definition, he wrote that if a feeble and brave man assaulted a strong coward, robbed him of his cloak or something, and was brought to trial for it, neither party ought to speak the truth; the coward should say that he had not been assaulted by the brave man alone, whereas the other should prove that only they two were present and should use the well-known argument, “How could a little man like me assault such a man as he is?” The coward will not acknowledge his cowardice, but will perhaps try to invent some other lie, and thus give his opponent a chance to confute him. And in other cases there are other similar rules of art. Is that not so, Phaedrus?

Certainly.

Oh, a wonderfully hidden art it seems to be which Tisias has brought to light, or some other, whoever he may be and whatever country he is proud to call his own! But, my friend, shall we say in reply to this, or shall we not—

What?

“Tisias, some time ago, before you came along, we were saying that this probability of yours was accepted by the people because of its likeness to truth; and we just stated that he who knows the truth is always best able to discover likenesses. And so, if you have anything else to say about the art of speech, we will listen to you; but if not, we will put our trust in what we said just now, that unless a man take account of the characters of his hearers and is able to divide things by classes and to comprehend particulars under a general idea, he will never attain the highest human perfection in the art of speech. But this ability he will not gain without much diligent toil, which a wise man ought not to undergo for the sake of speaking and acting before men, but that he may be able to speak and to do everything, so far as possible, in a manner pleasing to the gods. For those who are wiser than we, Tisias, say that a man of sense should surely practice to please not his fellow slaves, except as a secondary consideration, but his good and noble masters. Therefore, if the path is long, be not astonished; for it must be trodden for great ends, not for those you have in mind. Yet your ends also, as our argument says, will be best gained in this way, if one so desires.”

I think what you have said is admirable, if one could only do it.

But it is noble to strive after noble objects, no matter what happens to us.

Certainly.

We have, then, said enough about the art of speaking and that which is no art.

Assuredly.

But we have still to speak of propriety and impropriety in writing, how it should be done and how it is improper, have we not?

Yes.

Do you know how you can act or speak about rhetoric so as to please God best?

Not at all; do you?

I can tell something I have heard of the ancients; but whether it is true, they only know. But if we ourselves should find it out, should we care any longer for human opinions?

A ridiculous question! But tell me what you say you have heard.

I heard, then, that at Naucratis, in Egypt, was one of the ancient gods of that country, the one whose sacred bird is called the ibis, and the name of the god himself was Theuth. He it was who invented numbers and arithmetic and geometry and astronomy, also draughts and dice, and, most important of all, letters. Now the king of all Egypt at that time was the god Thamus, who lived in the great city of the upper region, which the Greeks call the Egyptian Thebes, and they call the god himself Ammon. To him came Theuth to show his inventions, saying that they ought to be imparted to the other Egyptians. But Thamus asked what use there was in each, and as Theuth enumerated their uses, expressed praise or blame, according as he approved or disapproved. The story goes that Thamus said many things to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts, which it would take too long to repeat; but when they came to the letters, “This invention, O king,” said Theuth, “will make the Egyptians wiser and will improve their memories; for it is an elixir of memory and wisdom that I have discovered.” But Thamus replied, “Most ingenious Theuth, one man has the ability to beget arts, but the ability to judge of their usefulness or harmfulness to their users belongs to another; and now you, who are the father of letters, have been led by your affection to ascribe to them a power the opposite of that which they really possess. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are no part of themselves, will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory, but of reminding; and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom, for they will read many things without instruction and will therefore seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise.

Socrates, you easily make up stories of Egypt or any country you please.

They used to say, my friend, that the words of the oak in the holy place of Zeus at Dodona were the first prophetic utterances. The people of that time, not being so wise as you young folks, were content in their simplicity to hear an oak or a rock, provided only it spoke the truth; but to you, perhaps, it makes a difference who the speaker is and where he comes from, for you do not consider only whether his words are true or not.

Your rebuke is just; and I think the Theban is right in what he says about letters.

He who thinks, then, that he has left behind him any art in writing, and he who receives it in the belief that anything in writing will be clear and certain, would be an utterly simple person, and in truth ignorant of the prophecy of Ammon, if he thinks written words are of any use except to remind him who knows the matter about which they are written.

Very true.

Writing, Phaedrus, has this strange quality, and is very like painting; for the creatures of painting stand like living beings, but if one asks them a question, they preserve a solemn silence. And so it is with written words; you might think they spoke as if they had intelligence, but if you question them, wishing to know about their sayings, they always say only one and the same thing. And every word, when once it is written, is bandied about, alike among those who understand and those who have no interest in it, and it knows not to whom to speak or not to speak; when ill-treated or unjustly reviled it always needs its father to help it; for it has no power to protect or help itself.

You are quite right about that, too.

Now tell me; is there not another kind of speech, or word, which shows itself to be the legitimate brother of this bastard one, both in the manner of its begetting and in its better and more powerful nature?

What is this word and how is it begotten, as you say?

The word which is written with intelligence in the mind of the learner, which is able to defend itself and knows to whom it should speak, and before whom to be silent.

You mean the living and breathing word of him who knows, of which the written word may justly be called the image.

Exactly. Now tell me this. Would a sensible husbandman, who has seeds which he cares for and which he wishes to bear fruit, plant them with serious purpose in the heat of summer in some garden of Adonis, and delight in seeing them appear in beauty in eight days, or would he do that sort of thing, when he did it at all, only in play and for amusement? Would he not, when he was in earnest, follow the rules of husbandry, plant his seeds in fitting ground, and be pleased when those which he had sowed reached their perfection in the eighth month?

Yes, Socrates, he would, as you say, act in that way when in earnest and in the other way only for amusement.

And shall we suppose that he who has knowledge of the just and the good and beautiful has less sense about his seeds than the husbandman?

By no means.

Then he will not, when in earnest, write them in ink, sowing them through a pen with words which cannot defend themselves by argument and cannot teach the truth effectually.

No, at least, probably not.

No. The gardens of letters he will, it seems, plant for amusement, and will write, when he writes, to treasure up reminders for himself, when he comes to the forgetfulness of old age, and for others who follow the same path, and he will be pleased when he sees them putting forth tender leaves. When others engage in other amusements, refreshing themselves with banquets and kindred entertainments, he will pass the time in such pleasures as I have suggested.

A noble pastime, Socrates, and a contrast to those base pleasures, the pastime of the man who can find amusement in discourse, telling stories about justice, and the other subjects of which you speak.

Yes, Phaedrus, so it is; but, in my opinion, serious discourse about them is far nobler, when one employs the dialectic method and plants and sows in a fitting soul intelligent words which are able to help themselves and him who planted them, which are not fruitless, but yield seed from which there spring up in other minds other words capable of continuing the process for ever, and which make their possessor happy, to the farthest possible limit of human happiness.

Yes, that is far nobler.

And now, Phaedrus, since we have agreed about these matters, we can decide the others.

What others?

Those which brought us to this point through our desire to investigate them, for we wished to examine into the reproach against Lysias as a speechwriter,See Plat. Phaedrus 257c. and also to discuss the speeches themselves and see which were the products of art and which were not. I think we have shown pretty clearly what is and what is not a work of art.

Yes, I thought so, too; but please recall to my mind what was said.

A man must know the truth about all the particular things of which he speaks or writes, and must be able to define everything separately; then when he has defined them, he must know how to divide them by classes until further division is impossible; and in the same way he must understand the nature of the soul, must find out the class of speech adapted to each nature, and must arrange and adorn his discourse accordingly, offering to the complex soul elaborate and harmonious discourses, and simple talks to the simple soul. Until he has attained to all this, he will not be able to speak by the method of art, so far as speech can be controlled by method, either for purposes of instruction or of persuasion. This has been taught by our whole preceding discussion.

Yes, certainly, that is just about our result.

How about the question whether it is a fine or a disgraceful thing to be a speaker or writer and under what circumstances the profession might properly be called a disgrace or not? Was that made clear a little while ago when we said—

What?

That if Lysias or anyone else ever wrote or ever shall write, in private, or in public as lawgiver, a political document, and in writing it believes that it possesses great certainty and clearness, then it is a disgrace to the writer, whether anyone says so, or not. For whether one be awake or asleep, ignorance of right and wrong and good and bad is in truth inevitably a disgrace, even if the whole mob applaud it.

That is true.

But the man who thinks that in the written word there is necessarily much that is playful, and that no written discourse, whether in meter or in prose, deserves to be treated very seriously (and this applies also to the recitations of the rhapsodes, delivered to sway people's minds, without opportunity for questioning and teaching), but that the best of them really serve only to remind us of what we know; and who thinks that only in words about justice and beauty and goodness spoken by teachers for the sake of instruction and really written in a soul is clearness and perfection and serious value, that such words should be considered the speaker's own legitimate offspring, first the word within himself, if it be found there, and secondly its descendants or brothers which may have sprung up in worthy manner in the souls of others, and who pays no attention to the other words,—that man, Phaedrus, is likely to be such as you and I might pray that we ourselves may become.

By all means that is what I wish and pray for.

We have amused ourselves with talk about words long enough. Go and tell Lysias that you and I came down to the fountain and sacred place of the nymphs, and heard words which they told us to repeat to Lysias and anyone else who composed speeches, and to Homer or any other who has composed poetry with or without musical accompaniment, and third to Solon and whoever has written political compositions which he calls laws: If he has composed his writings with knowledge of the truth, and is able to support them by discussion of that which he has written, and has the power to show by his own speech that the written words are of little worth, such a man ought not to derive his title from such writings, but from the serious pursuit which underlies them.

What titles do you grant them then?

I think, Phaedrus, that the epithet “wise” is too great and befits God alone; but the name “philosopher,” that is, “lover of wisdom,” or something of the sort would be more fitting and modest for such a man.

And quite appropriate.

On the other hand, he who has nothing more valuable than the things he has composed or written, turning his words up and down at his leisure, adding this phrase and taking that away, will you not properly address him as poet or writer of speeches or of laws?

Certainly.

Tell this then to your friend.

But what will you do? For your friend ought not to be passed by.

What friend?

The fair Isocrates. What message will you give him? What shall we say that he is?

Isocrates is young yet, Phaedrus; however, I am willing to say what I prophesy for him.

What is it?

I think he has a nature above the speeches of Lysias and possesses a nobler character; so that I should not be surprised if, as he grows older, he should so excel in his present studies that all who have ever treated of rhetoric shall seem less than children; and I suspect that these studies will not satisfy him, but a more divine impulse will lead him to greater things; for my friend, something of philosophy is inborn in his mind. This is the message that I carry from these deities to my favorite Isocrates, and do you carry the other to Lysias, your favorite.

It shall be done; but now let us go, since the heat has grown gentler.

Is it not well to pray to the deities here before we go?

Of course.

O beloved Pan and all ye other gods of this place, grant to me that I be made beautiful in my soul within, and that all external possessions be in harmony with my inner man. May I consider the wise man rich; and may I have such wealth as only the self-restrained man can bear or endure.—Do we need anything more, Phaedrus? For me that prayer is enough.

Let me also share in this prayer; for friends have all things in common.

Let us go.